


The Girl That Shouldn't Be: Book Three

by skarletfyre



Series: The Girl That Shouldn't Be [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Other, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-06-29 00:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 147,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: "Harry and Violet Potter were highly unusual children in many ways. For one thing, they were identical twins. For another, they hated the summer holidays more than any other time of the year. And, most strangely of all, they really wanted to do their homework. Also they happened to be wizards."* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *This is the third part of my (for the most part) canon-compliant rewrite of the Harry Potter series, told from the perspective of a character that doesn't exist. Violet Potter is Harry's twin sister. This is, as faithfully as I can make it, the story of what would happen if she were there.





	1. Owl Post

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to everyone who's followed through the first two parts of this story, and a warm welcome to everyone finding it for the first time! It's been amazing seeing all the kind comments and responses to Violet, who is a character that's been with me for a very long time.
> 
> A fair warning that this book will likely have the most changes from canon, which will have lasting consequences in later books as well. As much as I want to stick to Harry's original story, Violet's presence in the world does change things and I want her story to shine through as well. The gist of the book will be the same, but some details will obviously be changed.
> 
> I plan to continue this series all the way to the end, through book 7. It's probably going to take me a while, but I'll try to update as regularly as possible. If you're just finding this fic, please start from the beginning with Book One!!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Harry and Violet Potter were highly unusual children in many ways. For one thing, they were identical twins. For another, they hated the summer holidays more than any other time of the year. And, most strangely of all, they really wanted to do their homework. Also they happened to be wizards.

It was a late afternoon at the end of July, and the Potter twins were sitting across from one another at the kitchen table. This itself was out of the ordinary in the Dursley household. Normally Harry and Violet were nowhere in sight, no sign of their existence left out in the open to remind their only living relatives that they did, in fact, exist. But they had been in the kitchen for over an hour now, open books strewn between them and a pair of feathered writing quills scratching across the rolls of parchment they were each hunched over. Violet’s handwriting went halfway down the long page, though she wasn’t nearly done with her essay. The subject was History of Magic, and the prompt was, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.”

Her quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Violet leaned forward, frowning as she read:

 

_ Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises. _

 

None of that seemed even remotely plausible to Violet. What happened when the fire died down and the suspected witch was still standing there, perfectly unharmed? How were the witches of the age captured in the first place if Muggles were so afraid of them, and they had magic to defend themselves with? And what about all the women that were burned who  _ weren’t _ witches? Maybe the Witch Burnings of the Fourteenth Century  _ were _ completely pointless, but that didn’t make them any less important.

Violet dipped the end of her quill into the ink bottle sitting near her elbow and began to write. This was not the sort of thing she imagined Professor Binns — the ghost professor who taught History of Magic — was looking for in this essay, but it was what she wanted to write about.

Harry and Violet did not speak to one another as they worked on their respective essays. Behind them, the sound of running water and the occasional clink of glass and silverware colliding were the only sounds in the entire house. Their Aunt Petunia was washing the evening’s dishes. The entire scene was very odd in the Dursley household. The twins, studying magic out in the open while their aunt puttered silently around them. There was no noise from Dudley or his television, because Dudley was not in the house.

Things had been very strange ever since Uncle Vernon left.

As it was, the twins were particularly keen to avoid trouble with their aunt at the moment, as it was only be her good graces that they still had a bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads. It not for her, the two of them would be on the street.

The trouble had started not even a week into the school vacation, all because of a telephone call from a fellow wizard.

Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry’s best friends at Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This meant that he knew a lot of things that Harry and Violet didn’t, but had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily it had been Uncle Vernon who answered the call.

“Vernon Dursley speaking.”

Harry and Violet, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as they heard Ron’s voice answer.

“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT — TO — TALK — TO — HARRY — POTTER!”

Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.

“WHO IS THIS?” he roared in the direction of the mouthpiece. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“RON — WEASLEY!” Ron bellowed back, as though he and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends of a football field. “I’M — A — FRIEND — OF — HARRY’S — FROM — SCHOOL —”

Uncle Vernon’s small eyes swiveled around to Harry, who was rooted to the spot.

“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” he roared, now holding the receiver at arm’s length, as though frightened it might explode. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT SCHOOL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON’T YOU COME NEAR MY FAMILY!”

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a poisonous spider.

The fight that followed had been one of the worst ever.

“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE — PEOPLE LIKE  _ YOU! _ ” Uncle Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit. Violet had been dragged into it as well, Uncle Vernon demanding to know if she had told any of her “freaky little friends” how to find them. Violet, thinking of the paper she had given to her best friend, Tracey Davis, containing not only the phone number but the home address, shook her head vigorously and denied everything until Uncle Vernon had let them go.

Ron had obviously realized that he’d gotten the twins into trouble, because he hadn’t called again. But with no one to get in touch with Tracey and warn her off, it was only a matter of time before there was an unexpected knocking at the door one morning. Thankfully Uncle Vernon had already gone to work, but when Aunt Petunia opened the door to a young Black girl and her father standing on the doorstep, politely asking if Violet was at home, the twins knew for certain that they would be severely punished when their uncle returned home.

Aunt Petunia, forever performing the expected niceties, stiffly called Violet down- stairs and asked her to introduce her guests.

Seeing Tracey outside of school, dressed in Muggle clothes and standing on the stoop of Privet Drive was about the wildest, most wonderful thing Violet could have ever imagined. The two girls ran and hugged one another, giggling and laughing and talking a mile a minute about how much they’d missed one another while Mr. Davis stood there and tried to make polite small talk with Aunt Petunia.

Most unexpectedly, Harry and Violet were allowed to join Tracey and Mr. Davis on a day outing to London. Instead of walking round Muggle London, however, they were taken to Diagon Alley and allowed to wander from shop to shop, picking out sweets and souvenirs and spending the day in each other’s company. Harry didn’t know Tracey as well as Violet did, so things were a tad awkward at first, but Violet did her best to make her brother feel included. This was a rare treat for the both of them, after all. And without all the bustle of people preparing for the school year, Diagon Alley was nearly empty in comparison to the times they had visited it before.

After several hours of wandering and visiting the twins were taken home, and Violet and Tracey said their tearful goodbyes — Violet was also able to warn Tracey not to call the house, to avert further disaster.

Aunt Petunia was even more withdrawn than usual when Harry and Violet returned. Uncle Vernon was not yet home from work, and as the twins were tasked with setting the table and helping with supper, their aunt gave them a short, clipped warning:

“Say nothing to him about today,” said Aunt Petunia, not looking at either of them as she brushed a heavy glaze onto an enormous baked chicken, “or you’ll be back in that cupboard for the rest of the summer.”

The threat of returning to the cupboard under the stairs, which Harry and Violet had been forced to share and sleep in for all their lives until two summer’s prior, was more than enough to take the wind out of their sails. When their uncle returned home at quarter to seven, still in a foul mood from his day at the drill company, the twins kept their expressions arranged into appropriately solemn and unhappy expressions to avoid raising suspicion.

They could have stayed like that all summer — moping and sulking around the edge of the room out of everybody’s way — and been perfectly fine without anyone the wiser. Unfortunately, things had a funny way of going wrong around the Potters.

One morning, Violet came downstairs to find Aunt Petunia in hysterics.

Uncle Vernon had an important business meeting coming up with a number of company associates, and had arranged for an expensive dining room to be reserved for them at a local establishment. There he would be able to give a rousing speech and presentation, and show these associates exactly why his branch of the company was doing better than everybody else’s and deserved more money accordingly. In addition to the dining hall he had also been fitted for a new suit which, when Violet had last seen it, was hung on a special hanger behind the laundry room door, covered in a protective layer of thin plastic. Now, as she stood in the door of the dining room, Violet stared at the suit clutched in Aunt Petunia’s shaking hands.

There was a blotchy, acrid smelling stain spreading down the front of the suit jacket and one of the trouser legs, turning the fabric from a distinguished blue to a sickly yellow. Aunt Petunia had thrown the ruined suit into the sink and was desperately trying to rinse the spreading stain away to now avail. On the floor were shards of brown, broken glass. Violet recognized it at once as the bottle of peroxide that Aunt Petunia used to lighten her hair.

“It’s ruined,” Aunt Petunia was mumbling to herself, her voice high and frantic. “Oh,  _ no _ , I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it all . . .”

“I can help,” Violet said boldly from the doorway. Aunt Petunia’s head whipped around to look at her, staring with wide eyes. Violet swallowed hard. “I can fix it and make it back to normal,” she told her aunt, “but to do it I’ll have to use magic.”

The ‘M’ word was  _ highly _ forbidden in the Dursley household. Even so much as a whisper or a misunderstanding could lead to harsh punishment, and Violet was risking an awful lot of the good will she’d built up over the last few weeks by speaking of it now. But she knew exactly how bad this situation was, for all of them. Uncle Vernon’s meeting was that night. He had been looking forward to wearing his nice new suit for the occasion, and there was no time at all to go out and have a new one fitted, especially not without him knowing about it. If he came home to find the suit in its current state he would be furious, and Violet suspected that Aunt Petunia would waste no time passing the blame onto her and Harry. They would be harshly punished, but even so Uncle Vernon was not a man who let go of his anger easily. The house would be tense for days, if not weeks. Eggshells could only be walked upon for so long before giving way.

So Violet stared at Aunt Petunia, standing firm in her offer to put this right and save them all.

“ _ Fine, _ ” spat Aunt Petunia, finally. She let the suit drop into the sink and shut the water off with a fierce twist. “Fix it, then. It’s on your head now, so don’t muck it up!”

There was very little Violet could have done to ruin the suit even further, but she took the warning to heart. Aunt Petunia wasn’t putting trust in her, she was putting the burden of success on her shoulders. Violet would fix the suit, or she would take the down- fall.

With help from a bewildered Harry, Violet hauled her school trunk out from the cupboard beneath the stairs and dragged it into the kitchen. She unpacked her cauldron, her books, and the stash of Potion ingredients that were left over from her last year at school. Then, in broad daylight and in the middle of Aunt Petunia’s gleaming Muggle kitchen, Violet began to work.

There was a particular potion she had in mind that, although she had never brewed it before, Violet was confident in her ability to do it right. Since the start of her second term last year, Violet had been receiving private lessons from her Head of House and Potions teacher, Professor Snape. These ‘lessons’ were actually supposed to be detentions for a complicated series of lies she’d been caught telling, but Violet felt as though she was being  _ taught _ far more than she was being punished. Professor Snape was a very strict teacher with a mean streak a mile wide, and Harry did not share any of Violet’s esteem for the man — it was a common argument between the twins about Snape’s intentions. Harry had been convinced, on more than one occasions, that Professor Snape was evil and out to get him, specifically. Violet, who was a Slytherin and a student in Snape’s house, had faced far less of his ire and wrath. And it was thanks to him that she was now confident enough to attempt brewing a complicated potion outside of school.

The ingredients for a magic potion were not the sort of thing you could just find lying around in any old Muggle shop. Aunt Petunia hovered anxiously in the doorway, watching Violet and Harry pull out all sorts of things like pickled salamander tongues and bat wings and powdered griffin claw. Violet set her cauldron to boiling on the stovetop and flipped open her course book to a page on cleaning solutions.

Two hours later the kitchen smelled strongly of onion and soap suds, and Violet had just finished laying out the ruined suit across the kitchen table when the electric timer went off and let her know the potion was ready.

A thick, creamy pink paste had congealed at the bottom of the cauldron, looking for all the world like melted taffy. Under Aunt Petunia’s watchful eye — she’d never left the kitchen, watching with obvious interest as Violet chopped, measured, and crushed her various ingredients — Violet took a spoon and scooped up a dollop of the pink paste. She walked over the table and plopped it right down on the largest part of the stain. Aunt Petunia let out a small squeak of alarm as the concoction was spread across the ruined fabric, allowed to soak in and work its way into the thread. Violet set the timer again for ten minutes, sat down, and waited.

When the pink paste was rinsed away with cold water, the fabric beneath it was no longer blotchy and yellowed — the rich, vibrant blue had been restored to it as though it had never been stripped away at all.

While Aunt Petunia sputtered and stared, Violet scooped the rest of the Stain Restorative into a plastic leftover container and presented it to her without a word.

That should have been the end of it. All the school supplies and books and magical evidence was stowed away and wiped down, and Violet was well out of sight by the time Uncle Vernon returned home from work to get himself ready for the big dinner. His suit was back on the door in the laundry room, rewrapped in its plastic sheath, waiting for him to put it on and go close a business deal. Unfortunately, it was only the beginning of the worst fight that had ever taken place in the Dursley household.

“ **_PETUNIA!_ ** ”

Uncle Vernon’s roar could be heard from all the way upstairs, practically shaking the walls of the house. His bellowing was so enraged that Harry and Violet had to come and see what all the fuss could possibly be about. What they walked in on in the kitchen was a waking nightmare.

Apparently Violet hadn’t done as good a job tidying up after herself as she’d thought. Not only had she missed some spilled newt eyes and forgotten to rinse the drain of leftover paste, but during all the fuss she’d missed a slip of notepaper that had fallen out of her books and come to rest beneath the kitchen table, where Uncle Vernon had found it and was now holding it in his clenched, purple fist. He was shaking both in Aunt Petunia’s face, and in his other hand had a tight hold on her wrist.

“— LOST YOUR SENSES?” he was shouting, his face maroon beneath his quivering, spit-flaked mustache. “YOU SWORE TO ME — NONE OF THIS NONSENSE UNDER OUR ROOF, SWORE IT WOULDN’T TOUCH OUR FAMILY —”

Aunt Petunia was weeping hysterically. Her face was stark white in sharp contrast to Uncle Vernon’s, and whatever she was gibbering about was drowned out under her husband’s shouts.

A sudden spark of anger flared to life in Violet’s chest. She had never been very brave in the face of someone’s anger, instead preferring to shrink back and cry in safety until the danger had passed. But today, filled with the pride of a job well done, something pushed her forward into the fire.

“Leave her alone!” Violet hollered, dashing forward into the kitchen and grabbing hold of Uncle Vernon’s meaty arm.

“Get off of her!” roared Harry as he leapt onto Uncle Vernon’s back, prompting another earth-shaking bellow. The twins latched onto their uncle and tried to pry him away from Aunt Petunia, all of them shrieking and screaming and yelling at once. Uncle Vernon staggered backward, his tiny eyes bulging with fury. Aunt Petunia practically fell away from him, crying loudly while Uncle Vernon fought to get the twins off of him.

There was a loud  _ CRACK!  _ and suddenly Violet was on the floor, slumped against the refrigerator. There was no pain, but the room in front of her was exploding in bursting black and white spots and it was very difficult to tell which way was up. She didn’t realize until later that she had been slapped.

“I’VE HAVE ENOUGH! ENOUGH, ENOUGH,  _ ENOUGH _ OF THIS FOOLISHNESS!” screamed Uncle Vernon. He reached over his head and grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck, yanking him loose and throwing him bodily to the floor. “NO MORE, PETUNIA, I WON’T STAND FOR IT! I WANT THEM OUT, DO YOU HEAR ME? EITHER THOSE — THOSE  _ MONGRELS _ GO OR I DO! I MEAN IT!”

“Then  _ go _ !” Aunt Petunia had shouted, her voice shrill and ragged as it cut through the chaos of the scene. “Get out, Vernon,  _ get out _ !  _ GET OUT _ !”

She screamed and screamed at Uncle Vernon’s purpled, outraged face until he finally spun on his heel and stormed from the kitchen. They heard his footsteps on the stairs and a great clamor from the second floor, and several minutes later Uncle Vernon thundered back down the stairs with a stuffed suitcase in his hands and walked right out the front door without a single backward glance. That left Harry and Violet crumpled on the kitchen floor and Aunt Petunia slumped over the sink, hanging onto the counter for support and crying her eyes out.

All of that had taken place two weeks ago.

In that time, the house at Privet Drive had been quieter than Harry and Violet could ever remember it being. There was no shouting, no blaring television, no forced laughter or hour-long evening rants on the state of world politics. Aunt Petunia moved around the house like a ghost, methodically cleaning and straightening things that weren’t dirty or crooked to begin with. She was ignoring the twins more than usual — it was like they had simply ceased to exist.

When Harry and Violet had finished up their essays, they replaced the tops of their ink bottles, dried the tips of their quills, and packed everything away to take it back upstairs to their room. Without a word to one another they changed into their pajamas, turned out the lights, and went to bed.

 

Some hours later, Violet opened her eyes into complete darkness. A high-pitched beeping was coming from somewhere nearby, and a dark shape was looming over her.

“Happy birthday, Vi,” said Harry’s voice. “Ready to make a wish?”

Violet sat up and blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. She reached out, searching for her brother’s hand — and found it reaching back for her. Their fingers twined together, and Violet let her eyes fall shut again.

“What are we wishing for?” she asked quietly. “It’s your turn, I got to choose last year.”

Harry was silent for a long moment. She could hear his breathing, and the singing of crickets outside their open window.

“How about ‘family?’” he whispered. “I mean — I know it’s a long shot . . . but we’ve kind of been on a roll with these lately, haven’t we? Home and safety came true, sort of. D’you want to give it a shot?”

Violet squeezed Harry’s hand tightly and hoped he couldn’t see the tears gleaming in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

And together, hands clasped together and eyes shut, Harry and Violet touched their foreheads together and silently concentrated on their birthday wish.

This was another unusual thing about the Potter twins — how little they looked forward to their shared birthday. Neither of them had ever received a birthday card in their life. The Dursleys had completely ignored their last two birthdays, and they had no reason to suppose that Aunt Petunia in her current stupor would remember this one.

Now that she was awake, Violet realized just how hot it was in the little second floor bedroom that she and her brother shared. She swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood up, stretching and feeling as the joints in her back and shoulders popped loudly.

Violet walked across the dark room to the open window, past the large, empty cage that belonged to Harry’s snowy white owl, Hedwig. She leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on her face after a long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been absent for two nights now. Harry didn’t seem worried, so Violet wasn’t either: Hedwig had been gone for this long before. Still Violet could tell that Harry missed her. Along with Violet’s great orange cat, Crookshanks, the owl was their only other living companion in the house.

A strong breeze came through the window, blowing the hair from Violet’s face. The place where Uncle Vernon’s hand had collided with her cheek was still tender — a sickly blue and purple bruise stood out, livid on her cheek and the socket of her eye even against her dusky skin, no matter how much ice she held to it. Violet had been avoiding looking in the mirror lately. She didn’t like the way it looked, or how it separated her from looking like her brother.

Violet and Harry, though still rather small and skinny for their age, had both grown a few inches over the last year — for the first time that they could remember, they could no longer stand level and look one another in the eye. Violet stood over an inch taller than her twin, and was secretly very pleased about it. Other differences had cropped up between them as well. Though they both shared the same jet-black, stubbornly untidy hair and bright green eyes, it was becoming easier to tell the two of them apart at a glance. 

Violet had started to develop what Aunt Petunia called “a figure.” What that figure  _ was _ exactly Violet didn’t know, but before the big blowout with Uncle Vernon her aunt had dragged her along to a shop in London to buy all manner of things that Violet had never thought or cared about in her life until that point. Bras, she thought, were the most mortifying purchase, until they got to the aisles full of acne creams and “feminine hygiene products.” Violet didn’t even know what such things were  _ for _ until Aunt Petunia stiffly explained it to her on the car ride home. Back in their bedroom, after much wheedling to tell him what was wrong Violet finally relayed what she’d learned to Harry. His response wasn’t nearly as horrified as Violet’s had been in the car, but he confessed to being conflicted: relieved that such a thing wasn’t going to happen to him, yet a bit jealous that this was another experience he couldn’t share with his sister.

There had always been one thing to set the Potters apart, however, and that was the thin, lightning shaped scar that stood out on Harry’s forehead. Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most extraordinary of all. It was not, as the Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of the car crash that had killed the twins’ parents, because Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash. They had been murdered, murdered by the most feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing more that a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had rebounded upon its originator. Violet had come through without a mark on her. Voldemort, barely alive, had fled . . .

But he was still out there. The twins had come face to face with him at Hogwarts, and Harry had survived the repeated attempts on his life again and again. Thinking of how close she had come to losing her brother as she stood at the dark window, Violet had to admit they were lucky to have even reached their thirteenth birthday.

She scanned the ground below looking for a sign of Crookshanks, who liked to prowl around in the bushes underneath the window and would occasionally bring home dead mice and birds as ‘gifts’ for Violet and Harry, expecting praise. When she didn’t see him outside, Violet looked back around the room behind her and found curled up beneath the desk, watching her with sleepy orange eyes. She sighed at him and turned back to the cool outdoors. Gazing absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before Violet realized what she was seeing.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided creature, and it was flapping in Violet’s direction. She stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For a split second she hesitated, her hand on the window latch, wondering whether to slam it shut. But then the bizarre creature soared over one of the street lamps and Privet Drive, and Violet, realized what it was, leapt aside.

“Harry, move!” she hissed, just in time as though the window soared three owls, two of them holding up the third, which appeared to be unconscious. They landed with a soft  _ flump _ on the bed and the middle owl, which was large and grey, keeled right over and lay motionless. There was a large package tied to its legs.

“Errol?” Harry groaned, sitting up and staring at the strange mass of feathers that had landed in his lap. “Where did you —?”

Violet, who was far more awake than her brother, dashed to the bed, untied the cords around Errol’s legs, took off the parcel, and then carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to gulp some water. 

When Violet turned back to the bed, Harry was sitting up with his legs hanging over the edge stroking the head of the large snowy female owl, which was his very own Hedwig. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then flew across the room to join Errol.

Violet didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome tawny one, because in addition to a third package, it was carrying a pair of letters bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its feathers important, stretched its wings, and took off through the window into the night. It very nearly collided with yet  _ another _ owl that soared right up the window, landed on the sill, and let out a loud, demanding hoot.

“And who are you?” Violet asked the bird — it was a funny looking black owl with great big round black eyes, all run though with rings of white feathers. It tilted its head and looked blinked at her, and stuck out its leg obligingly as Violet reached for the parcel attached to it. As soon as it was no longer burdened, the owl gave another noisy hoot and fluttered over to wedge itself into Hedwig’s cage with the others. Violet looked down at the package, which was simply scrawled with her name, and recognized the handwriting at once.

“Cassius sent me something!” she said excitedly, holding the package up to show her brother. Harry had already ripped off the brown paper from Errol’s package and was now holding two pieces of paper. One was a letter, and the other looked like a newspaper clipping.

“Ron’s family won a trip to Egypt!” Harry said, holding the clipping up for her see. “They all went to visit Bill for a month, that’s why I haven’t heard from him lately!”

Violet took the paper from Harry’s hand and quickly scanned the moving photograph, a grin spreading across her face as she saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at her, standing in front of a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it) with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the picture was Harry’s best friend Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his little sister, Ginny. Violet was pleased to see Ginny still looking well and so happy after the ordeal she had suffered at Hogwarts the year before.

Handing the clipping back to Harry, Violet sat down beside him and tore into her package from Cassius. Inside was a present wrapped in bright red paper, another, smaller present wrapped in black and yellow polka dots, and two envelopes containing her first ever birthday cards. Fingers trembling slightly, she opened the first envelope, which was also written in Cassius’ hand.

 

_ Dear Violet, _

_ Harry birthday! _

_ Sorry for not writing sooner, Mother and I only just got home yesterday. Tracey sent me her present for you as well and asked me to pass it along. She said she was worried about the Muggles giving you a hard time  _ —  _ are you doing alright? Now that I’m home, consider yourself invited over at any time. I suppose you can bring Harry, too, if you have to. _

_ Spain was beautiful this time of year. You wouldn’t believe all the magic that Muggles will just walk past like it’s not there, even when it’s right out in the open! There’s loads of old history here. Reminds me of some of the places my father used to take me, only with more sunshine.  _

_ I’ll tell you more about it when we see each other, if you like. And if you can’t make it to the house, Tracey and I made plans to meet up in London a week before term starts. Try and meet us there! _

_ Enjoy the rest of the summer. _

_ Hope you like the present, _

 

_ Cass _

 

Violet now turned to the larger of the two presents and unwrapped it. Inside was a polished wooden box, carved all along the sides with stylized, intricate bird and feather motifs. The top bore a golden inlaid music note. Curious, Violet opened the lid.

Immediately, the room was filled with shrill birdsong. Violet slammed the lid shut again and looked at Harry with wide eyes.

“What on earth was that?” he asked, staring at her.

“A music box, I think?”

“A music box that  _ screams _ ? I thought Warrington was your friend, Vi.”

“Oh, shut up,” Violet said, nudging Harry with the point of her elbow. She cracked the lid open again, just a sliver, and was surprised and delighted when a completely different, far more melodic bird’s chirping sang out.

“Oh! It makes different noises, isn’t that lovely?” Violet said with a smile. She held the box out to show Harry, but he was too engrossed in whatever it was that Ron had sent him — it looked like a miniature glass top with small colorful beads inside of it.

Violet fondly shut the lid of the music box and set it aside, reaching for the second present and envelope. Tracey’s loopy handwriting scrawled Violet’s name across the front of each, and Violet opened the eagerly.

 

_ Happy birthday, Violet! _

_ I wish I could be there with you to celebrate, but Papa broke his ankle and can’t drive anywhere right now! Otherwise you bet I would be right there giving you your present in person! _

_ I don’t know about you but I’ve been  _ so _ busy this summer  _ —  _ I’ve got another brand new cousin and the house has been hectic with crying and diapers and all my other little cousins have been running around wanting attention, so of course I’m the one who has to look after them all and keeping them from tearing the place apart and driving their parents mad. ‘Babysitting’ doesn’t begin to cover it. When I suggested hiring a proper nanny my aunties only laughed and said that’s what  _ I _ was for. Can you believe that? I’ve barely had time to get started on my summer homework and I’m worried I’ve forgotten just about everything we learned last year. Honestly I can’t wait for school to start  _ —  _ at least nobody wakes us up crying in the middle of the night there. _

_ It was so good to see you last month, I wish we could have had more time together! I wanted to take you back home with us whether your aunt and uncle would let you go or not, but Papa thought we might get in trouble for it so I didn’t say anything. Next summer, though!  _

_ I’m really so excited for school to start so we can all be together again. Me and Cass set up a meeting in Diagon Alley the last week of the holidays and if you’re not there then it just won’t be the same! And I’ve got more presents for you that I can give you, too  _ —  _ I would have sent them now, but I didn’t want to give the poor owl a hard time. But I hope you like this one! It reminded me of you as soon as I saw it! _

_ Can’t wait to see you! Tell Harry I said happy birthday to him as well! _

_ Much love, hugs and kisses, _

 

_ Tracey! _

 

Violet laughed as she put Tracey’s letter aside and picked up her present. It was very light. Knowing Tracey, she was sure it would a handmade little craft of some sort covered in beads and glitter — but it wasn’t. Underneath the polka dot wrapping paper was a clear plastic box containing a tiny, bright yellow quill with a gleaming silver nib. The black writing stamped across the side of the box read _Evard’s_ _Extending, Everlasting Quill!_

Violet opened the box and pulled out the tiny quill — it fit neatly in the palm of her hand, and tucked underneath it was a small instructional pamphlet full of simple little diagrams. Violet squinted at them, grabbed hold of the quill as instructed — pinch the nib with one hand, pinch the end of the feather — and pulled. With ease, the entire quill stretched and stretched until it was not only a full sized but  _ over _ sized writing utensil. Violet waved it around fancifully, a smile on her face. On the back of the pamphlet, printed in large black letters were the words: “It Never Runs Out!”

“That looks handy,” Harry said, peering over her shoulder. On his lap was a sleek black leather case, stamped with the silver words  _ Broomstick Servicing Kit _ across it.

“Who’s that from?” Violet exclaimed in surprise. Even thought it was dark in the room, she swore she saw a blush spread across Harry’s cheeks.

“Hermione sent it,” he said quietly. “It’s really kind of her . . .”

Violet thought it was a lot more than  _ kind _ , but kept her comments to herself. Hermione was Harry’s other best friend at school, and she of all people would know the thing Harry valued above all else was the racing broom he’d been given in his first year of school. Harry was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team — the youngest Seeker in a century, and he was very good at it.

Harry set the leather case aside and picked up the last parcels. He kept one for himself, and gave the other to Violet. She recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: these were from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. She tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before she could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.

Violet froze. She knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what was dangerous. Hagrid was known to befriends giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

“Hold on a moment,” Violet said, putting a hand out to stop Harry from tearing into his package as well. “Something’s a bit funny with this one . . .”

“Well, it  _ is _ from Hagrid,” Harry muttered, as though reading her thoughts, but set his package aside nonetheless. “It’s not alive, is it? Vi, please tell me he didn’t send us something that’s alive.”

“I don’t know yet, I’m scared to open it! It snapped at me.”

“ _ What _ ?” Harry said, jerking back from the thing in her lap. Violet stuck out her hand impatiently.

“Give me the card,” she said, and ripped open the envelope as soon as it was put in her hands. Written in the same untidy scrawl:

 

_ Dear Harry and Violet, _

_ Happy birthday! _

_ Think you might find this useful for next year.  _

_ Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you. _

_ Hope the Muggles are treating you right. _

_ All the best, _

 

_ Hagrid _

 

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of this,” Violet said, passing the note back to her brother. It struck her as ominous that Hagrid thought something that moved and snapped would come in useful, but whatever it was he obviously meant well. Hagrid was the most kind, loving person that Violet had ever known in all her life and she firmly believed that no matter how misguided his attempts may be, he would always do his best to help her and Harry. Even if that meant mailing them a living creature.

“We’ve got to open them,” Harry said quietly, staring between the two quivering packages. “If they  _ are _ alive, I mean — what if we have to feed them?”

“ _ I’m _ not opening it!” said Violet. She shoved the package into Harry’s lap and jumped up from the bed. Looking around, her eyes landed on the lamp on the bedside table. She grabbed and gripped it firmly like a bat, poised to strike, and nodded to her brother. Harry, looking very much like he didn’t want to be a part of this, took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the wrapping paper, and pulled.

And out fell — a book. Violet just enough time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title  _ The Monster Book of Monsters _ , before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

Violet screamed, and the book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled quickly across the room. It made for the dark space underneath the death where Crookshanks had been napping and a loud yowl sounded from the shadows, followed by a ball of bright orange fair and sharpened claws. The monster book let out strange, wild shriek as Crookshanks pounced viciously on it and bit down on the corner.

“Get it,  _ get it, _ Crookshanks!” Violet cheered, but Harry lunged forward and leapt on the book himself, yanking it from Crookshanks’ grasp and holding it to his chest with both hands.

“My belt,” he said to Violet, clearly struggling with the thing, “the second drawer, grab it and help me with this!”

Violet scrambled to aid Harry, grabbing the belt and buckling it tightly around the book. The  _ Monster Book _ shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap. Crookshanks was still growling loudly at it, but the danger had passed. Harry threw the book back down on the bed and ran both hands through his hair.

“Let’s not unwrap the other just yet, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Violet said. She righted the lamp on the bedside table. “Yeah, that’s fine by me, Harry.”

Now that that madness was over and the rest of their presents had been opened, there was nothing left but their letters from Hogwarts.

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Violet tore open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:

 

_ Dear Ms. Potter, _

_ Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock, _

_ Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign. _

_ A list of books for next year is enclosed. _

_ Yours sincerely, _

 

_ Professor M. McGonagall _

 

_ Deputy Headmistress _

 

Violet and Harry pulled out their Hogsmeade permission forms and looked at one another, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; they knew it was an entire wizarding village, and they had never set foot there. But with everything going on with Aunt Petunia, how on earth could they persuade her to sign it?

Violet looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two in the morning.

“We’ll figure something out,” she said to Harry, who looked just as troubled as she did at the prospect of approaching their aunt for a favor. “But . . . in the morning.”

Agreeing that they’d worry about the Hogsmeade form when they woke up, Violet and Harry got back into bed and settled down under the covers — they lay with their heads next to one another’s feet, as they always had since they were very little. Violet closed her eyes and tried to calm down enough to fall asleep.

Extremely unusual though they were, at that moment, Harry and Violet Potter felt just like everyone else — glad, for the first time in their lives, that it was their birthday.


	2. Aunt Marge's Big Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Harry and Violet went down to breakfast the next morning to find Aunt Petunia looking more or less like her old self. Her hair was nicely styled and she had even gone to the trouble of putting on makeup. The house was looking particularly spotless as well. The television was on, and the sound of the newscasters delivering their morning report mingled with the sizzling sausages and the rattling tea kettle. Breakfast had already been prepared and, most unusually, three sets of plates and silverware had already been arranged at the table. Harry and Violet looked at the place settings and then at one another — together, they entered the kitchen slowly and with caution, like animals walking into what should have been an obvious trap.

“Good morning,” said Aunt Petunia curtly, startling them even further. Violet and Harry stared at her with wide eyes.

“M-morning,” Harry finally muttered. The shock of being acknowledged was almost too much to bear, especially so early in the morning. Things only got more bizarre when Aunt Petunia, unprompted, tipped three sausages onto each of their plates and poured not one but _three_ cups of tea. All their lives the twins had been left to fend for themselves at mealtimes — they served the Dursleys, and got to eat whatever scraps were leftover when the family was done. Never, ever had Aunt Petunia served them breakfast like this. No one had, apart from Mrs. Weasley, with whom Aunt Petunia had next to nothing in common.

Aunt Petunia joined the twins at the table as they suspiciously nibbled at the ends of their sausages, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Over the heavy blanket of silence between them, the reporter on the television was halfway through a report on an escaped convict.

“. . . The public is warned that Black in armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.”

Violet glanced at the television in time to see the mugshot of a gaunt-faced man, surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle of his own hair. He certainly looked like a dangerous, deranged sort of fellow. By the time Violet had nudged her brother to look up and see for himself, the reporter had already reappeared.

“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today —”

Aunt Petunia cleared her throat softly, and both twins snapped their attention toward her.

“Duddy’s coming home,” said Aunt Petunia, and Violet felt her blood run cold.

She knew, of course, that their cousin Dudley couldn’t stay on holiday with his friend Piers forever. Piers’ parents had been kind enough to take the Dursleys only son off to Italy with them for the first half of the summer, and Violet could only imagine that by now they would be more than happy to be rid of him. Of course not everyone found Dudley as horrible as she and Harry did. Aunt Petunia, his mother, thought the absolute world of him no matter what he did or who he did it to. Violet was _not_ looking forward to Dudley’s return.

“When?” Harry asked bravely. Aunt Petunia held up a bony wrist to look down at her watch.

“Today,” she said. “This afternoon. Vernon’s bringing him.”

“ _Vernon_?”

Harry and Violet spoken the name together, with similar degrees of shock and horror.

“ _He’s_ coming back here?” Violet said. “After what he _did_?”

“He’s bringing Dudley from the train station,” Aunt Petunia said, not looking at either of them. She didn’t appear to be looking at anything, really. “We’re going to have a little welcome home party for Dudders and talk at dinner. Marge is coming as well.”

Harry and Violet, already in the throes of horror, recoiled further back from Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of the twins’ (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), they had been forced to call her “Aunt” all their lives. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry and Violet’s minds.

At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked the pair of them around the shins with her walking stick to stop them from beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry and Violet to share amongst themselves. On her last visit, the year before the twins had started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favourite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge refused to call him off until past midnight. Violet had tried to lure the dog away and give Harry time to run, but had ended up getting bitten so badly she had to have stitches in her right hand. The memory of this incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.

“Marge will be here for a week,” said Aunt Petunia remotely, “and we’re all going to be a family for that time to keep her from worrying. Vernon and I don’t want Dudley to be upset by all of this, he’s so sensitive, as you know —”

Harry and Violet exchanged dubious looks.

“— and I don’t want any nastiness or funny business from the pair of you while all of this is going on. Everything has got to be _normal_ and perfect while Marge is here, and that means you being out of the way and on your best behavior, understood?”

“That’s rubbish,” Harry said bluntly. “How are we supposed to act like things are _normal_ anymore, with Violet’s face all black and blue like that? How could you let him come back?”

“This is _his_ home,” Aunt Petunia snapped fiercely, both hands clenched into bony fists on top of the table; there was a blotchy purple ring around her right wrist. “Bruises can be covered — I won’t let my family fall apart over something like that, and I won’t have _you_ mucking it all up more than you already have!”

Their Aunt’s face was drawn and white, but her thin cheeks were flushed with emotion. Her pale eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and glared wildly between the twins.

Harry’s chair scraped loudly across the floor as he stood up. Aunt Petunia immediately recoiled, but he didn’t even spare her a look as he strode from the kitchen, his footsteps pounding on the stairs as he returned to the bedroom. Violet sat there, stunned; she could feel the tears dripping from her chin, but couldn’t recall the moment she started crying. Not that it mattered — Violet was used to the reminder than she was unwanted. It stung especially now, however. To her, it felt as though things had been almost peaceful between Aunt Petunia and herself without the looming bulk of Uncle Vernon around to hold the wedge between them firmly in place. But perhaps she’d read too far into it and expected too much from her aunt.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs again and a moment later Harry has returned, two pieces of parchment paper clenched in his hand. He thrust them at Aunt Petunia.

“W-what’s this?” Aunt Petunia said, staring at but not taking the papers.

“Leverage,” Harry said flatly. “Third years at Hogwarts —” Their aunt’s face pinched at the school’s name “— are allowed to visit the village sometimes, but we need a guardian to sign the permission forms.”

Aunt Petunia’s eyes narrowed as she looked closer at the forms, then darted back up to Harry.

“And you expect me to sign them for you?” she said. Harry’s smile was grim.

“If you want me and Violet to ‘act normal’ while Aunt Marge is here, yes. Especially with _him_ going to be here, too — Violet and I will stay out of sight and keep our mouths shut and you can keep on pretending like everything’s fine, if you like. But _only_ if you agree to sign the forms.”

Aunt Petunia bore the expression of someone who’d just had a bucket of ice water unexpectedly thrown over them. Violet had never seen Harry like this before. He was always braver, bolder, more forthright than she could ever be — he was a Gryffindor, the house that most celebrated those traits — but this stroke of fierce cunning was a genius tactic. Harry’s hands were shaking slightly as he held the forms out in front of him, but he wasn’t about to back down. When he met Violet’s eyes across the table, silently checking that he hadn’t overstepped in speaking for the both of them, she gave her brother a small nod of reassurance.

“I think that sounds fair,” Violet said evenly, turning to look at Aunt Petunia. “It’s awfully hard to lie all the time. Surely we’d be better at it if we actually got something out of it at the end.”

Aunt Petunia was outnumbered and outmatched. Violet’s heart swelled at her brother’s support, and at the craftiness of his words — there was a reason, she’d always thought, that the Sorting Hat had wanted to place him with her in Slytherin.

“Alright,” said Aunt Petunia faintly. Her bony hands uncurled and lay flat on the tabletop, pale and perfectly still. The look in her eyes was more hardened than it had been before. “Alright, I’ll sign them — _if_ , at the end of the week, you’ve behaved properly. No funny business, no smart mouths, no m- _magic_.”

She spat the last word as if it were poison, and to her it might as well have been. But for the twins, even hearing her say it was a victory of sorts.

But Violet didn’t feel victorious, not in the slightest, as she and Harry trudged back up to their bedroom with the intention of hiding all of their things away. If they were going to act like real Muggles, they might as well start now. Slowly and sadly the two of them gathered up all the presents their friends had sent them, along with the schoolbooks and homework, and hid them under the loose floorboard beneath their bed. Harry went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both fast asleep, and Cassius’ black and white owl was preening quietly on the top of the cage. Violet scrawled a quick note to Cass, thanking him for the music box and confirming that she would do her best to meet him and Tracey in London at the end of the summer. Whether or not she’d actually be able to was uncertain, but the promise at least made her feel better.

“Crookshanks?” Violet called, ducking down to look beneath the bed. “Crooky-shankies, where’ve you gone?”

There was a soft mew from her right and the enormous, orange, and massively fluffy form of Violet’s cat emerged from beneath the shadow of the desk. He came straight to her, purring before she’d even touched him, and pressed his squashed little face into her hand.

“There you are!” Violet cooed. She scooped Crookshanks into her arms with ease — he was far lighter than he looked — and pressed her face lovingly into his fur. He was purring so loudly Violet could feel it through her own chest. “Such a clever boy, catching that scary book last night. Very brave of you, Crooks, well done.”

The cat let out another, louder mew and began to knead his sharp claws against Violet’s leg. She adored Crookshanks — he was the smartest cat she’d ever met, and had a way of looking at her that made Violet believe he could understand everything she was saying to him. It had been a great comfort having him around — but with Aunt Marge incoming and sure to bring at least one mean old bulldog along with her, Violet knew it would be better for him to go.

“You’re not going to like this,” Violet said to the purring cat, “but I need you to stay outside for a while.”

Crookshanks immediately stopped purring. He turned his round, bright orange eyes up at Violet in indignation.

“Please don’t look at me like that, it’s for your own good,” she pleaded. “It won’t be safe here. There’s a horrible woman coming to stay and she’s bringing a nasty, slobbery beast with her. If she or the dog catches sight of you —”

Crookshanks let out a much louder yowl than before and flexed his claws menacingly.

“Yes, you’re very fierce and strong, but if _you_ get into a fight _I’ll_ be the one to get in trouble. It’s not my fault. This is the only way Harry and I will be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with our friends.”

Violet stood up with Crookshanks still in her arms and walked to the open window with him. Very gently, she plopped him out onto the little bit of roof that stuck out beneath the sill. Crookshanks stared up at her reproachfully.

“Fine,” Violet said, “you can come in at night. But stay out of sight in the daytime, alright? Please?”

She gave Crookshanks a fond pat on the head. He blinked up at her, once, and then the next moment he was gone. Violet caught sight of his bottle-brush tail disappearing into Mrs. Next-Door’s rhododendrons and let out a sigh.

A few minutes later, Errol and Hedwig and the unnamed black owl (all bearing notes to their respective owners tied to their legs) soared out of the window and out of sight. Violet, now feeling thoroughly miserable, collapsed backward onto the bed while Harry tucked Hedwig’s cage away inside the wardrobe.

But the two of them didn’t have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for them to come down and get ready to welcome their guest.

“Hold still!” Aunt Petunia snapped as soon as Violet reached the hall, grabbing hold of her chin between her bony fingers. Violet tried not to flinch as something thick and creamy was smeared onto her cheek, Aunt Petunia pressing painfully into her bruise. Her aunt stepped back and turned Violet’s face back and forth in the light, tutted, and muttered, “That will have to do . . . Don’t touch it, you’ll rub it away. Smile, now, here they come —”

All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon’s car pulled into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on the garden path.

“Get the door!” Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.

Violet did her best to shrink back into the shadows as Harry, looking as unhappy as she felt, pulled the door open.

On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon: large, beefy, and purple-faced, she even had a mustache, though not as bushy as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked under the other was an old and evil-tempered bulldog.

“Here we are!” roared Aunt Marge. “Finally — now get me into a chair!”

Aunt Marge thrust her suitcase into Harry’s stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Behind her, blond hair plastered flat to his head, many chins waggling, came the round and very tan face of Dudley. Aunt Petunia let out a high-pitched squeal at the sight of her son and threw her arms around him before he’d even properly crossed the threshold.

“Dudders!” she cried, already weeping into his meaty shoulder. “My Duddy boy’s come home! Oh, look at you — brown as a nut! Such a handsome lad, oh, you must tell me everything —”

Dudley hugged his mother back and shuffled his way into the house, half-dragging her along with him. And at last, smiling jovially as he shut the door behind him, came Uncle Vernon.

“Tea, Marge?” he said. “And what will Ripper take?”

“Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,” said Aunt Marge as they all proceeded into the kitchen, sweeping Violet along with them. Harry was left out in the hall with the suitcase, but Aunt Petunia let go of Dudley long enough to swat Violet toward the waiting tea tray. Orbiting outside of Aunt Marge’s line of sight for as long as possible, Violet went around pouring tea and slicing fruitcake for everybody; she set an extra saucer full of tea down for the bulldog.

“Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?” Uncle Vernon asked. He and Aunt Petunia sat on opposite sides of the table, Dudley oblivious between them.

“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,” boomed Aunt Marge. “He’s retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave poor old Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.”

Ripper began to growl as Harry entered the room and took a seat next to Violet. This directed Aunt Marge’s attention to the twins for the first time.

“So!” she barked. “Still here, are you?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Don’t you say ‘yes’ in that ungrateful tone,” Aunt Marge growled. “It’s damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself. You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d been dumped on my doorstep.”

This was nothing new that the twins hadn’t heard from Aunt Marge before, but it still rankled. Violet, who had long ago mastered the art of avoiding Aunt Marge’s barbs, ducked her head and looked appropriately abashed. Harry, however, composed his face into what looked like a painful smile.

“Don’t you smirk at me!” boomed Aunt Marge. “I can see you haven’t improved since last I saw you. I hoped school would knock some manners into you.” She took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said, “Where is it that you send them, again, Vernon?”

“St. Brutus’s,” said Uncle Vernon promptly. “It’s a first-rate institution for hopeless cases.”

Violet had never heard of such a place, much of less of being sent there — but if that was the lie Uncle Vernon had decided upon to keep the truth hidden, there was nothing she or Harry could do to protest.

“I see,” said Aunt Marge. “Do they use a cane at St. Brutus’s, boy?” she barked across the table at Harry.

“Er —”

Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge’s back.

“Yes,” said Harry. Then added, “All the time.”

“Excellent,” said Aunt Marge. “I won’t have this namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is what’s needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have _you_ been beaten often?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, “loads of times.”

Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes.

“I still don’t like your tone, boy,” she said. “If you can speak of your beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren’t hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I’d write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the use of extreme force in this boy’s case.”

Aunt Petunia’s face was sheet-white as she gave a short, curt nod. One of her hands was firmly placed on Dudley’s massive shoulder as she hunched forward, devouring his fourth helping of fruit cake.

Perhaps Uncle Vernon had remembered exactly why he hadn’t been able to sleep in his own home for the past week and worried one of the twins might spill the beans; the subject changed abruptly.

“Hear the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner, eh?”

 

As Aunt Marge started to make herself as home and Uncle Vernon resettled into his role as head of the household, Violet caught herself thinking almost longingly of life at number four without her. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia usually encouraged the twins to stay out of their way, which they were only happy to do. Aunt Marge, on the other hand, wanted the pair of them under her eye at all times, so that she could boom out suggestions for their improvement. She delighted in comparing Harry with Dudley, and took huge pleasure in ridiculing Violet’s appearance and mannerisms.

“Looks the proper tart, this one,” sneered Aunt Marge one morning as Violet was silently serving breakfast. “If that shirt were any tighter we could use it as clingfilm for the leftovers. I suppose that’s the fashion among you little trollops, isn’t it, girl?”

Violet, face burning and hands shaking, made the mistake of answering back.

“Aunt Petunia bought it for me,” she muttered.

“ _Bought_ it?” roared Aunt Marge. “Good heavens, Petunia, you shouldn’t go round spending money on these types — give them a pence and they’ll take a pound.”

To make matters worse, amid all of this was the silent war raging between Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. They hovered around one another, rarely speaking and never touching, only interacting when prompted by Aunt Marge; Dudley noticed nothing, as usual, but Violet frequently found herself caught right in the middle of it.

Every morning, as soon as she’d set foot outside of her bedroom, Aunt Petunia would swoop in and carefully apply a fresh layer of makeup to the bruise that remained persistently livid on Violet’s face. The colour was too light and left Violet looking like she’d been hit with a powder puff instead of a fist. Uncle Vernon stepped into the hall on the third day of this, and caught sight of Violet’s bare face. He froze on the stair, staring slack- jawed at his handiwork.

In two weeks, the bruise hadn’t faded at all. Deep purple and sickly yellow around the edges, it covered most of the right side of Violet’s face from her eyebrow to just above her jaw. Her right eye was no longer swollen, though the half-circle shadow beneath it was too dark to pass off as even the most extreme exhaustion.

Every morning Violet would look at her own reflection and feel the hatred pooling in her belly, and every night she would go to bed feeling the dull ache of the pillow against her battered face. Aunt Petunia could cover it up all she liked, but it would always be there at the end of the day, just beneath the surface.

The rage came with her down the stairs and into the kitchen, simmering softly with every word Aunt Marge said.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way this lot’s turned out, Vernon,” she said over lunch on the third day. “If there’s something rotten on the _inside_ , there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

Violet could feel Harry shaking beside her at the table, his face going red with anger even as he tried to concentrate on his food. It was taking a lot of Violet’s own strength to keep her mouth shut. _Remember the forms,_ she told herself. _Think about Hogsmeade. Don’t say anything. Don’t rise_ —

Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.

“It’s one of the basic rules of breeding,” she said. “You see it all the time with dogs. If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pups —”

At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.

“Marge!” squealed Aunt Petunia. “Marge, are you alright?”

“Not to worry,” grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin. “Must have squeezed it to hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip . . .”

But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both looking at the twins suspicious, so they decided it’d be best to skip desert and escape from the table as soon as they could.

Outside in the hall, Violet leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.

“Did you do that,” asked Harry quietly, “or did I?”

“Probably me,” Violet muttered. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. This wasn’t the first time she’d lost control and broken something, though it had been a good while. Hagrid had warned her once to keep her temper checked, and she’d been _trying_ — but that was far easier said than done with Aunt Marge around, saying horrible things just to get a rise out Harry and Violet.

But it was something Violet knew she couldn’t risk happening again. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would surely know that one of them had been responsible for the glass shattering, and the Hogsmeade form wasn’t the only thing at stake — if she carried on like that, there was a chance of getting in trouble with the Ministry of Magic.

The twins were still underage wizards, and were forbidden by wizard law to do magic outside school. Their record wasn’t exactly clean either. Only last summer they’d gotten an official warning that had stated quite clearly that if the Ministry got wind of any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry and Violet would face expulsion from Hogwarts.

“Vi?”

Violet opened her eyes slowly, and found her brother staring at her with concern on his thin face. His hand hung in the air between them, palm up.

“Let’s get out of the way, yeah?” Harry said. Violet raised her own hand and placed it in his his. They gave each other a brief squeeze, and then hurried upstairs together.

 

Violet got through the next three days by forcing herself to think about her Arithmancy tables whenever Aunt Marge started on her. This worked quite well, and also left her feeling more prepared for her coming classes at school.

At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge’s stay arrived. Aunt Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a single mention of the twins’ faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon bored them all with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy — the drink had appeared more than once over the last week, and Violet kept catching whiffs of alcohol as she washed and rinsed the teacups in the afternoon.

“Can I tempt you, Marge?” said Uncle Vernon.

Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very red.

“Just a small one, then,” she chuckled. “A bit more than that . . . and a bit more . . . that’s the ticket.”

Dudley was eating his forth slice of pie. Aunt Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger sticking out. Harry and Violet both were itching to disappear into their bedroom, but with Uncle Vernon’s angry little eyes on them they knew they would have to sit this one out.

“Aah,” said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy glass back down. “Excellent nosh, Petunia. It’s normally just a fry-up for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after . . .” She burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach. “Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy,” she went on, winking at Dudley. “You’ll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I’ll have a spot more brandy, Vernon . . .

“Now, this one here —”

She jerked her head at Harry, who Violet immediately felt freeze beside her.

“This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get that dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Rattly little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.”

Violet was trying to remember the letters associated with number 6, and why they were important.

“It all comes down to bad blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing against your family, Petunia” — she patted Aunt Petunia’s bony hand with her shovel-like one —”but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s the result right in front of us.”

At the mention of her mother, Violet felt as though her heart were skipping beats. There was a funny ringing in her ears as well. _Next, you reduce your numbers by adding them together_ . . . she thought, only Violet couldn’t remember what the next point was. Aunt Marge’s voice seemed to be boring into her like one of Uncle Vernon’s drills.

“This Potter,” said Aunt Petunia loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, “you never told me what he did?”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents.

“He — didn’t work,” said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at the twins. “Unemployed.”

“As I expected!” said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. “A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who —”

“He was not,” said Harry suddenly. The table went very quiet. Violet, was was sitting very still, could feel her brother shaking beside her. Her eyes were fixed, unseeing, on the half-empty plate in front of her. The ringing in her ears was growing louder.

“NO MORE BRANDY!” yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge’s glass. “You two,” he snarled at Harry and Violet. “Go to bed, go on —”

“No, Vernon,” hiccoughed Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect) —”

“They didn’t die in a car crash!” shouted Harry, who was suddenly on his feet.

“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you and your tart of a sister to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!” screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury. “You are an insolent, ungrateful little —”

The ringing in Violet’s ears reached a dull, persistent whine, and Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexplicable anger — but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami —

“MARGE!” yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia together as Aunt Marge’s whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking madly.

“NOOOOOOO!”

Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge’s feet and tried to pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon’s leg.

Violet felt someone grab her arm and pull her roughly to her feet, and a moment later she was in the hall with Harry, heading for the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically open as they reached it.

“I’ll get the trunks,” Harry said, pushing her toward the stairs. “Grab everything from the room — get Hedwig’s cage —”

Violet sprinted up the stairs and threw herself under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase full of their books and birthday presents. She wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s empty cage and, and dashed back downstairs to Harry and their trunks, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters.

“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!”

He reached out and grabbed a hold of Violet’s wrist, trying to yank her back into the dining room — but then he released her with a sharp yelp of pain. Harry had pulled out his wand and was now pointing it at Uncle Vernon.

“You keep away from her,” he said, breathing very fast as he pulled Violet behind him. She fumbled with the latch on the door, hands shaking. “We’re going. We’ve had enough.”

And in the next moment, the pair of them were out in the dark, quiet street, heaving their heavy trunks behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've figured out the update schedule!
> 
> Since this is still technically a WIP, I've decided that every time I finish a chapter, I will post a chapter. This might get a little hectic; sometimes a new chapter will be posted the next day, sometimes it might take over a week. But I really don't want to get ahead of myself or find that I need to catch up to my own writing. That's never fun.
> 
> So we'll see how this works out! Please let me know if you have any thoughts or concerns about it!


	3. The Knight Bus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Harry and Violet were several streets away before they collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging their trunks. They leaned heavily on one another, hands clasped tightly together on the cold stone, feeling the frantic, angry thumping of each other’s hearts.

But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new emotion overtook them: panic. Whichever way they looked at it, they had never been in a worse fix. The two of them were stranded in the dark Muggle world with no one but each other, and absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, Violet had just done serious magic, which meant she was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. She had broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry so badly, she was surprised Ministry of Magic representatives weren’t swooping down on her where she sat.

Violet shivered and looked up and down Magnolia Crescent. What was going to happen to her? Would she be arrested? Would she be outlawed from the wizarding world? She thought of Tracey and Cassius — and then of Harry, and her heart sank even lower.

Harry wouldn’t let the Ministry take her. He wouldn’t let them shut her away or push her out, not without a fight. Violet knew her brother — Harry had always been there for her,  _ always _ protected her from the worst of the troubles they’d face together. She feared that Harry would try to take the blame for her crimes and sacrifice himself to spare her — Violet couldn’t let that happen.

“Vi?”

Harry’s voice was close and soft. Violet looked up to find her brother staring at her, concern written all over his face. Violet blinked, her vision oddly blurry, and realized that she’d been crying again.

“We’re gonna be okay,” said Harry; he was trying to sound so brave for her, and all she could do was sit there and weep. “We’ll figure something out, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Violet said, her voice very small. “Harry, I’m so sorry . . . it’s my fault, I lost my temper — I couldn’t stop it, I was so  _ angry _ —”

“It’s  _ not _ your fault,” said Harry firmly. “It was  _ her _ fault, and she deserved what she got.”

“But —”

“But nothing!” Harry said. He rounded on Violet, placing his hands on her shoulders and staring her dead in the eye. “You were attacked. She provoked you, and you defended yourself, that’s all there is to it. It wasn’t your fault, Violet.”

Fresh tears sprung to Violet’s eyes. A sob burst from her throat, and Harry wasted no time in pulling her into a tight, reassuring hug.

“What are we going to do?” Violet wailed as she clung to her brother, her whole body shaking the force of her tears. “W-where can we go?”

“We’ll go to London,” Harry told her. “I’ve got my broomstick and my Invisibility cloak — we can tie one of the trunks to the broom and fly there, and empty our vault at Gringotts. And then” — he swallowed hard — “then we can go wherever we want. They can’t stop us if they can’t find us. And as long as  _ I’m _ flying no one will be able to catch us.”

Harry sounded so certain and confident, but Violet could feel him shaking as well. It was a horrible prospect; going on the run, becoming outcasts from the wizarding community and having to leave all their friends behind. But if it was a choice between that and being expelled, and even being taken to wizard jail...

Well, there really wasn’t much of a choice at all, was there?

“C’mon,” Harry said, rubbing his hand encouragingly over Violet’s back as she pulled away. “We can’t stay here — the last thing we need is to explain to Muggle police why we’re out here in the dead of night with a broomstick and a pair of trunks filled with spellbooks.”

Violet wiped her face with the back of her arm as Harry stood to open his trunk; she was in short sleeves and the cold was starting to sink into her limbs, and of all the things she’d grabbed from their bedroom a jacket had not been one of them.

Harry straightened up suddenly, looking around him once more.

“What’s wrong?” Violet asked. The streets appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from any of the large square houses.

“Nothing,” said Harry. He bent over his trunk again. “Thought I felt —”

Almost immediately he stood up once more, his hand clenched on his wand. He thrust an arm out in front of Violet, pulling her behind him as he stared into the dark, narrow gap between the garage and the fence behind them.

“What is it?” Violet breathed, her throat tight with terror. She could see nothing in the black alleyway, but Harry was transfixed. “Harry — Harry,  _ please _ —”

There was the sudden sound of gravel crunching, and the pair of them both screeched as something leapt at them from the shadows — something small and fluffy, which immediately pressed itself against Violet’s ankles.

“Crookshanks!” Violet cried. She quickly bent and scooped the already-purring cat into her arms, nuzzling her face into his thick fur. “Crooks, you  _ scared _ me! I can’t see as good as you can, you’ve got to warn me!”

Crookshanks let out an apologetic mew and pressed his head against Violet’s shoulder. She tutted for a moment further, smoothing some of the dust out of his fur — Harry was slumped in relief, his wand hanging limply at his side.

“Of course it’s the cat,” he muttered. “No wonder I felt like we were being watched.”

“Is that what it was?” said Violet. “ _ You _ scared me, too, Harry — I thought there was something out there to get us.”

“So did I! It’s pitch black in there, look —  _ Lumos _ —”

A light appeared at the end of Harry’s wand, almost dazzlingly bright. He held it high over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and between them both Harry and Violet saw, quite distinctly, the hulking outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming eyes.

Violet screamed, and Harry leapt backward. His legs hit his trunk and he tripped. Violet’s arm were full of cat and couldn’t catch him — his wand flew out of his hand as he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in the gutter.

There was a deafening BANG and Violet screamed again, slamming her eyes shut against a sudden blinding light —

Harry yelled, and when next she looked he was rolled back onto the curb and a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights were parked exactly where he had just been lying. They belonged, as Violet saw with wide, disbelieving eyes, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield spelled  _ The Knight Bus. _

Violet’s mouth fell open in shock as a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and began speaking loudly to the night.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will your conductor this eve —”

The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his wand and scrambled to his feet. Violet could see that Stan Shunpike was only a few years older than they were, eighteen or nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and quite a few pimples.

“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan, dropping his professional manner.

“Fell over,” said Harry.

“’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, said Harry, clearly annoyed. Violet could see one of the knees of his jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. She remembered suddenly why Harry had fallen over and turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was empty.

“’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan.

“There was a big black thing,” said Violet, nodding uncertainly into the gap. “Like a dog . . . but massive . . .”

She looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly open. With a feeling of unease, she saw Stan’s eyes slide between herself and Harry.

“You twins?” said Stan abruptly.

“No,” said Violet quickly, pulling her chin back to try and change the shape of her face. “We just — we just look alike.”

“Woss your names?” Stan persisted.

“Parvati Patil,” said Violet, the first plausible name that popped into her head. She looked at Harry pointedly, who stupidly blurt out, “Neville Longbottom.”

“So — so this bus,” Violet went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did you say it goes  _ anywhere _ ?”

“Yes,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he said, looking suspicious again, “you  _ did _ flag us down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”

“Yes,” said Harry and Violet at the same time. “Listen,” Harry continued, “how much would it be to get to London?”

“Elven Sickles each,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”

Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted his money bag, and shoved some gold into Stan’s hand. Then with Stan’s help they lifted his and Violet’s trunks, with Hedwig’s empty cage balanced on top, up the steps of the bus. Violet followed behind and boarded last, Crookshanks still clutched tight to her chest.

There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass bedsteads stood beside the curtained windows. Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed, illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in a nightcap at the rear of the bus muttered, “Not now, thanks, I’m pickling some slugs,” and rolled over in his sleep.

“You ’ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s trunk under the bed right behind the driver, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel. “An’  _ you _ have this one,” he said to Violet, storing her trunk under the next bed over. “This is our driver, Ernie Prank. This is Neville and Parvati, Ern.”

Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick glasses, nodded to each of the twins in turn. Harry was nervously flattening his bangs down over his forehead as they sat on their respective beds.

“Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting down in the armchair next to Ernie’s.

There was another tremendous BANG, and the next moment Violet found herself flat on her bed, thrown backward by the speed of the Knight Bus. Pulling herself up, Violet first saw Harry in the exact same predicament and then, staring out the dark window, that they were now bowling along a completely different street. Stan was watching their stunned faces with great enjoyment.

“This is where we was before you flagged us down,” he said. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?”

“Ar,” said Ernie.

“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” said Harry.

“Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen properly, do they? Don’ look properly neither. Never notice nuffink, they don’.”

“Best to go wake up Madam March, Stan,” said Ern. “We’ll be in Abergavenny in a minute.”

Stan passed by the twin’s beds and disappeared up a narrow wooden staircase. Violet was still looking out of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie didn’t seem to have mastered the use of the steering wheel. The Knight Bus kept mounting the pavement, but it didn’t hit anything; lines of lampposts, mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it approached and back into position once it had passed.

Stan came back downstairs, followed by a faintly green witch wrapped in a travelling cloak.

“’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as Ern stamped on the brake and the beds all slid a foot or so toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and rammed the doors shut; there was another loud BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow country lane, trees leaping out of the way.

Violet wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if they’d been traveling on a bus that didn’t keep banging loudly and jumping a hundred miles at a time. Her stomach churned as she fell back to wondering what was going to happen to her, and whether the Dursleys had managed to get Aunt Marge off the ceiling yet.

Stan had unfurled a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ and was now reading with his tongue between his teeth. A large photograph of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair blinked slowly at Violet from the front page. He looked strangely familiar.

“That man!” Violet gasped, forgetting her troubles for a moment. “He was on the Muggle news!”

Stanley turned to the front page and chuckled.

“Sirius Black,” he said, nodding. “’Course ’e was on the Muggle news, Parvati, where you been?”

He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry and Violet’s faces, removed the front page, and handed it to Violet.

“You oughta read the papers more, Parvati.”

Violet waved Harry over and bunched up so that he could sit before. She held the paper up the candlelight and they both read:

 

**BLACK STILL AT LARGE**

_ Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. _

_ “We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, “and we beg the magical community to remain calm.” _

_ Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis. _

_ “Well, really, I had do, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister’s assurage that he will not breath a word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face it — who’d believe him if he did?” _

_ While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse. _

 

Violet looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of his sunken face that seemed alive. Violet had never met a vampire, but she had seen pictures of them in her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looked just like one.

“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been watching them read.

“He murdered  _ thirteen people _ ?” said Harry, handing the page back to Stan, “with  _ one curse? _ ”

“Yep,” said Stan, “in front of witnesses an’ all. Broad daylight. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?”

“Ar,” said Ern darkly.

Stan swiveled in his armchair, his hands on the back, the better to look at Harry and Violet.

“Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said.

“What?” Violet said, her blood turning to ice in her veins. “Is that why he killed all those people?”

“Yeah,” said Stan, his grin widening at the look of fear on Violet’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. Very close to You-Know-’Oo, they say. Anyway, when the little Potter babies got the better of You-Know-’Oo —”

Harry nervously flattened his bangs down again.

“— all You-Know-’Oo’s supporters was tracked down, wasn’t they? Most of ‘em knew it was all over, wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in-command once You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over.

“Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street full of Muggles an’ Black took out ’is wand and ’e blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it, an’ so did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrbile, eh? An’ you know what Black did then?” Stan continued in a dramatic whisper.

“What?” said Harry and Violet together.

“ _ Laughed _ ,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed. An’ when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic got there, ’e went wiv ’em quiet as anyfink, still laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s mad, inee, Ern? Inee mad?”

“If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban, he will be now,” said Ernie in his slow voice. “I’d blow meself up before I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind you . . . after what he did . . .”

“They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Er?” Stan said. “’Ole street blown up an’ all them Muggles dead. What was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?”

“Gas explosion,” grunted Ernie.

“An’ now ’e’s out,” said Stan, examining the newspaper picture of Black’s gaunt face again. “Never been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there, Ern? Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t fancy ’is chances against them Azkaban guards, eh, Ern?”

Ernie suddenly shivered.

“Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad. Them Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles.”

Stan put the paper away reluctantly, and Harry returned to his own bed. Violet leaned against the window of the Knight Bus, feeling worse than ever. She couldn’t help imagining what Stan might be telling his passengers in a few night’s time.

“’Ear about that Violet Potter? Blew up ’er aunt! We ’ad ’er an’ ’er brother ’ere on the Knight Bus, di’n’t we Ern? They was tryin’ to run for it . . .”

She, Violet, had broken wizard law just like Sirius Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge bad enough to land her in Azkaban? And what would that mean for Harry? Violet didn’t know anything about the wizard prison, though everyone she’d ever heard speak of it did so in the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had apparently spent the two months that Violet was Petrified there only last year. She couldn’t imagine what that could have been like for him, such a gentle soul. Violet would have to ask him about it — if she ever got to see him again.

The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, scattering bushed and wastebaskets, telephone booths and trees, and Violet lay, restless and miserable, on her feather bed with Crookshanks fast asleep on her stomach. After a while, Stan remembered that Harry had paid for hot chocolate, but poured it all over Harry’s pillow when the bus moved abruptly from Anglesey to Aberdeen. One by one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the bus. They all looked very pleased to go.

Finally, Harry and Violet were the only passengers left.

“Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands, “whereabouts in London?”

“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.

“Righto,” said Stan. “’Old tight, then . . .”

BANG!

They were thundering along Charing Cross Road. Violet sat up and shifted Crookshanks into her lap, watching buildings and benches squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way. The sky was getting a little lighter. They would have to lie low for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then set off — where, she didn’t know.

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-looking pib, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley. Crookshanks leapt to the floor as soon as the doors opened and dashed out onto the street.

“Oi!” Stan hollered. “Mind keepin’ a tighter ’old on your Kneazle, Parvati!”

“My  _ what _ ?” said Violet. Stan jut his chin in the direction Crookshanks had run off in.

“ _ Wot _ , she says — the cat! Mad fings, those, I ’eard.”

Violet, who had never heard the word ‘Kneazle’ before in her life until that moment, hopped off the bus feeling bewildered.

“Thanks,” said Harry to Ern.

He jumped down the steps and helped Stan lower their trunks and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement. Crookshanks, pleased to be stretching his legs, wound himself in circles around Violet’s ankles while she stood there, waiting.

“Well,” said Harry. “Bye then!”

But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

“ _ There _ you two are,” said a voice.

Before Violet could turn, she felt a hand on her shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey! Ern, come ’ere! Come  _ ’ere _ !”

Violet looked up at the owner of the hand on her shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into her stomach — they had walked right into Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself.

Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them.

“’Choo want with Neville and Parvati,” Minister?” he said excitedly. Harry, who was standing frozen next to their trunks, was looking very pale.

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, looked cold and exhausted.

“Neville and Parvati?” he repeated frowning. “This is Harry and Violet Potter.”

“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess ’oo Neville and Parvati is, Ern! It’s the Potters! I can see ’is scar!”

“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the Knight Bus picked the two of them up, but the three of us need to step inside the Leaky Cauldron now . . .”

Fudge increased the pressure on Violet’s shoulder — Violet cast a frantic look at Harry as she found herself being steered inside the pub. A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.”

“You’ve got them, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?”

“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let go of Violet.

There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind them, and Stan and Ern appeared, draggins the twins trunks and Hedwig’s cage and looking around excitedly.

“’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you are, eh, Parvati?” said Stan, beaming at Violet, what Ernie’s owlish face peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder.

“And a  _ private _ parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge pointedly.

“Bye,” said Violet miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led toward the bar. Violet caught a flash of orange as Crookshanks darted between Stan’s legs, disappearing up the stairs.

“Bye, Parvati! Bye, Neville!” called Stan.

Fudge gestured to Harry to go ahead of them, and then marched him and Violet along the narrow passage after Tom’s lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom clicked his fingers, a fire burst into light in the grate, and he bowed himself out of the room.

“Sit down, you two,” said Fudge, indicating a loveseat by the fire.

Violet sat down, feeling goosebumps rise on her arms despite the glow of the fire. She clasped her hands together in her lap to mask their shaking, and exchanged a nervous glance with Harry. Fudge took off his pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down in the armchair opposite them.

“I am Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.”

Violet already knew this, of course; she had seen Fudge’s picture in the newspaper, and Harry had even seen him in person once before, though he had been wearing their father’s Invisibility Cloak at the time.

Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a a tray of tea and crumpets. He placed the tray on the table between Fudge and the twins and left the parlor, closing the door behind him.

“Well, you two,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like that! I’d started to think . . . but you’re safe, and that’s what matters.”

Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the plate toward Violet and Harry.

“Eat, children, you look dead on your feet. Now then . . . you will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured and her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the incident at all. So that’s that, no harm done.”

Fudge smiled at them over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle surveying his favourite niece and nephew. Violet, who couldn’t believe her ears, opened her mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say, and closed it again.

“Ah, you’re worrying  about the reaction of your aunt and uncle?” said Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they are extremely angry — your uncle in particular was rather upset, but your aunt is prepared to take you back next summer as long as you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays.”

“We  _ always _ stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holiday,” Harry said, “and we don’t ever want to go back to Privet Drive.”

“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone. “They are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of each other — er —  _ very _ deep down.”

“We’re not,” Violet said shortly. She grabbed the doily from the arm of the sofa and used it to wipe the makeup off of her cheek, revealing the terrible bruise beneath. She looked the Minister of Magic in the eye as he stared, slack-jawed, at her battered face. “We’re not fond of each other  _ at all. _ I won’t go back so long as our uncle is there, and you can’t make me. We’ll run, and next time you won’t find us.”

Fudge gaped at her — a skinny thirteen year old, staring him down and telling him off was likely something he had never encountered in his political career, and for a long moment seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally, after looking his fill at the bruise and glancing quickly between Harry and Violet, his voice seemed to return to him.

“This — this will be addressed,” Fudge said delicately. “I was not informed of the circumstances until now, and I deeply apologize to you for that, my dear. Your uncle did express . . .  _ reluctance _ to return to the home as long as the two of you continued to reside there. Perhaps that attitude can be capitalized upon.”

Harry and Violet looked at one another, hardly daring to believe their ears. Did Fudge mean that he could make Uncle Vernon leave them alone for good? Could it really have been that simple, all this time?

“So all that remains,” said Fudge, clearing his throat and reaching for a second crumpet, “is to decide where you’re going to spend the last three weeks of your vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron and —”

“I’m not going to jail?” blurted Violet.

Fudge blinked.

“ _ Jail _ ? My goodness, dear, no —”

“But I broke the law!” Violet said. “The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry!”

“Oh, my dear girl, we’re not going to send you to jail for a little thing like that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. “It was an accident! We don’t send people to Azkaban for blowing up their aunts!”

While relieved to hear she wasn’t going to be dragged off to wizard prison, what Fudge was saying didn’t tally at all with Violet’s past dealings with the Ministry of Magic. Harry must have been thinking the same thing.

“Last year, we got an official warning just because a house-elf smashed a pudding in our house!” he told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of Magic said we’d be expelled for Hogwarts if there was any more magic used there!”

Unless Violet’s eyes were deceiving her, Fudge was suddenly looking awkward.

“Circumstances change, Harry . . . We have to take into account . . . in the present climate . . . Surely you don’t  _ want _ to be expelled?”

“Of course we don’t,” said Harry.

“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” laughed Fudge. “Now, have a crumpet, you two, while I go see if Tom’s got a room for you.”

Fudge strode out of the parlor and the twins stared after him. There was something extremely odd going on, and they could both feel it. Why had Fudge been waiting for them at the Leaky Cauldron, if not to punish them for what they’d done? And now that Violet thought about, surely it wasn’t usual for the Minister of Magic  _ himself _ to get involved in matters of underage magic?

Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper.

“Room eleven’s free, children,” said Fudge. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the space. I hope you’ll be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure you’ll understand . . . I don’t want you two wandering off into Muggle London, alright? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you’re to be back here before dark each night. Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me.”

“Okay,” said Harry slowly, exchanging another glance with Violet, “but why —”

“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge with a hearty laugh. “No, no . . . best we know where you are . . . I mean . . .”

Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.

“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know . . .”

“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Violet asked.

Fudge’s fingers slipped on the silver fastenings of his cloak.

“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards had never failed yet . . . and they are angrier than I’ve ever seen them.”

Fudge shuddered slightly.

“So, I’ll say goodbye.”

He held out his hand to each of the twins in turn. Harry, who was offered it last, did not let go immediately.

“Er — Minister?” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile.

“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but out aunt and uncle didn’t sign the permission form. D’you think you could —?”

Fudge was looking uncomfortable. Violet, who had forgotten all about Hogsmeade, felt a fresh wave of despair wash over her.

“Ah,” Fudge said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as I’m not your parent or guardian —”

“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly. “If you gave us permission —”

“No, I’m sorry, children, but rules are rules,” said Fudge flatly. “Perhaps you two will be able to visit Hogsmeade next year. In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t . . . yes . . . well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, children.”

And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand, Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, beaming at them.

“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Potter, Mr. Potter,” he said, nodding to them both, “I’ve already taken your things up . . .”

Harry and Violet followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocked and opened for them.

Inside was a very large, very comfortable looking bed, some highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe —

“Hedwig!” Harry gasped.

The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.

“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom. “Arrived about five minutes after you did. And a very clever cat, as well, miss!” He pointed to the head of the bed, where Crookshanks was nestled firmly between the two fluffy pillows. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

He gave another bow and left.

Harry sat on the bed for a long time, stroking Hedwig, while Violet wandered over to the window and pressed her nose to the glass. The sky outside was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Violet could hardly believe they’d left Privet Drive only a few hours ago, that they weren’t expelled, that she wasn’t being sent to prison, and that they were now facing three Dursley-free weeks.

“What a night,” Violet muttered, flopping next to Harry onto the great bed. When he didn’t answer, Violet looked over at her brother and found him sound asleep, eyes closed and mouth open. She smiled fondly at him, plucked his glasses off his nose, and carefully set them aside before falling back into the pillows and drifting off to sleep herself.


	4. The Leaky Cauldron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

It took several days for the twins to get used to their strange new freedom. Never before had they been able to get up whenever they wanted or eat whatever they fancied. They could even go wherever they pleased, as long as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in the world, Violet and Harry felt no desire at all to break their word to Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world.

The two of them ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky Cauldron, where Violet liked watching the other guests: funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in  _ Transfiguration Today _ ; wild-looking warlocks; raucous dwarfs; and once, what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.

After breakfast Harry and Violet would go out into the backyard and, using their wands, tap the third brick from the left above the trash bin, and stand back as the archway into Diagon Alley opened in the wall.

The twins spent the long sunny days exploring the shops and eating under the brightly coloured umbrellas outside cafes, where their fellow diners were showing one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old boy — no more messing around with moon charts, see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black (“personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone until he’s back in Azkaban”). They didn’t have to do their homework in tense silence in Aunt Petunia’s gleaming, pristine kitchen; now they could sit in the bright sunshine outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, finishing all their essays with occasional help from Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a great deal about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry and Violet free sundaes every half an hour.

Once the twins had refilled their money bags with gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from their vault at Gringotts, the pair of them had to exercise a lot of self-control not to spend the whole lot at once — Harry seemed especially keen on throwing his money away on frivolous things. Violet kept having to remind him that they had four more years of school to go, and how it would feel to have to ask the Dursleys for money for spellbooks.

Not that she wasn’t sorely tempted as well, of course, by things like the perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass ball, which would have meant she never had to take another Astronomy lesson, and the enchanted abacus with solid gold beads. In almost every shopfront something gleamed that tested Violet and Harry’s resolve, but the most powerful draw of all appeared in Harry’s favourite shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was staring at, Harry dragged Violet inside and the two of them squeezed their way in among the excited wizards and witches until they glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was mounted the most magnificent broom they had ever seen in their lives.

“Just come out — prototype —” a square-jawed wizard was telling his companion.

“It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?” squeaked a boy younger than the twins, was who was swinging off his father’s arm.

“Irish International Side’s just put in an order for seven of these beauties!” the proprietor of the shop told the crowd. “And they’re favourites for the World Cup!”

Violet scrunched up as a large witch in front of them moved, but still managed to get shoved several feet back. Harry was too busy trying to read the sign next to the broom.

“Price on request . . .” he muttered with a grimace. Thankfully he did  _ not _ ask for the price, but Violet saw the longing plain on his face as they edged their way back out of the store. Harry already had a brilliant broom — a Nimbus Two Thousand, gifted to him in his very first year at Hogwarts when he was recruited on to the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and he’d never lost a match with it yet. While Violet was pleased Harry had the sense not to empty their Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, he did return, almost every day after that, just to look at it.

There were, however, things that Harry and Violet  _ did _ need to buy. They went to the apothecary to replenish their store of potions ingredients — several of which Violet had completely used up in her Stain Restorative over the summer — and as their school robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg and, for Violet at least, uncomfortably tight in places, they visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and bought new ones. Most important of all, they had to buy all of their school books, which would include those for their new elective subjects; Violet had signed up for Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, and Harry had chosen Divination, but the pair of them had both selected Care of Magical Creatures.

The two of them got a surprise as they looked in at the bookshop window. Instead of the usual display of gold-embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there was an iron cage behind the glass that held about a hundred copies of  _ The Monster Book of Monsters _ . Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books grappled with each other, locked together in furious wrestling matches and snapping aggressively.

Violet pulled her booklist out of her pocket and read through it once more.  _ The Monster Book of Monsters _ was indeed listed as the required book for Care of Magical Creatures. It made sense now why Hagrid had said it would come in useful.

As Harry and Violet entered Flourish and Blotts, the manager came hurrying toward them.

“Hogwarts?” he said abruptly. “Come to get your new books?”

“Yes,” said Violet, “we need —”

“Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently, brushing them aside. He drew on a pair of very thick gloves, picked up a large, knobbly walking stick, and proceeded toward the door of the  _ Monster Books’ _ cage.

“Hang on,” said Violet quickly, “We’ve already got those.”

“Have you?” A look of enormous relief spread over the manager’s face. “Thank heavens for that. I’ve been bitted five times already this morning —”

A loud ripping sound rent the air; two of the  _ Monster Books _ had seized a third and were pulling it apart.

“Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager, poking the walking stick through the bars and knocking the books apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never! It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when we bought two hundred copies of the  _ Invisible Book of Invisibility _ — cost a fortune, and we never found them . . . Well . . . is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes,” said Violet, looking down at her booklist, “I need a  _ Rune Dictionary _ and  _ Ancient Runes Made Easy _ , please.”

“Ah, runes!” said the manager, stripping off his gloves and leading Violet toward a wall near the register. She could see a whole shelf devoted to  _ Spellman’s Syllabary _ ; Violet already had a copy in her trunk upstairs, which had once belonged to her mother, the margins of which were filled with personal notations and useful cheat sheets. These copies also looked newer than the one Violet owned. She admired them as the manager grabbed her books from the shelves. “One of my favourite subjects in school, you know — always pleased to see students keeping up with it.”

The manager handed Violet a thick tome with a deep purple cover, embossed with golden symbols on both the front and back, and then a slightly thinner yellow and black book with a soft paper cover.

“Here you are — anything else for you?”

“Er, yes please,” said Harry, consulting his own list. “I need  _ Unfogging the Future _ by Cassandra Vablatsky.”

“Starting Divination, are you?” said the manager with an oddly knowing smile. He led the two of them into the back of the shop, where there was a corner devoted to fortune-telling. A small table was stacked with volumes such as  _ Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate Yourself Against Shocks _ and  _ Broken Balls: When Fortunes Turn Foul _ .

“Here you are,” said the manager, who had climbed up a set of steps to take down a thick, black-bound book. “ _ Unfogging the Future _ . Very good guide to all your basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal balls, bird entrails —”

Harry didn’t reach for his books. He was staring across the way at another small table. Curious, Violet followed his eyeline and felt her blood run cold.

“Oh, I wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the manager lightly, looking to see what they were staring at. “You’ll start seeing omens everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.”

The book was, indeed, frightening. The cover read  _ Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst Is Coming _ , and featured a black dog large as a bear, with gleaming eyes. It looked oddly, terrifyingly familiar . . .

The manager pressed  _ Unfogging the Future _ into Harry’s hands.

“Anything else?”

“Er — yes,” Violet said. She reached out and grabbed a copy of  _ Death Omens _ from the table and added it to the stack in her arms. “I’ll take one of these, actually. And we need  _ Intermediate Transfiguration _ and  _ The Standard Books of Spells, Grade Three _ . Two copies of each, please.”

Harry and Violet emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes later with their new books under their arms and made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Violet’s grip on her books was white-knuckled as she walked, hardly noticing where she was going and bumping into several people.

The two of them tramped up the stairs to their room, went inside, and tipped all their books onto the bed. Somebody had been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun was pouring inside. This had happened several times over the last week, and Violet decided that she didn’t care for it one bit. The idea of someone barging in and moving her things around, going through her messes and such, reminded her too much of the random “raids” the Dursleys would run on the cupboard under the stairs, making sure she and Harry weren’t hiding food or money that they shouldn’t have.

“It can’t have been a death omen,” Harry said suddenly. Violet turned to find him standing next to the bed, staring down at the cover of her new book. He looked up at her, eyes wide and nervous. “We were panicking when we saw that thing in Magnolia Crescent . . . it was probably just a stray dog . . .”

“That’s why I bought the book,” said Violet. “I’m not taking Divination so I don’t know how much I’ll be able to get out of it — but at the very least maybe it can tell us what we’re meant to expect, yeah?”

“Do  _ you _ think it was a death omen?” Harry asked, looking hard at her.

Violet hesitated.

She had seen  _ something _ . Both she and Harry were there, and they had both screamed at the sight of a massive, dark shape looming between the pitch-black shadows. Stan Shunpike might not have believed them, but the pair of them trusted their eyes. But an  _ omen _ ?

“I don’t know anything about omens and the like,” Violet said carefully, “but I saw the same thing you did, Harry. It wasn’t nothing. Maybe it  _ was _ just a stray dog, but if it wasn’t . . .”

She looked pointedly at her new copy of  _ Death Omens _ .

“Then I’ll find out soon.”

 

As the days slipped past, however, Violet did  _ not _ find out about the great black dog they had seen on Magnolia Crescent; every time she started to pick up the book of omens Violet would lose her nerve and end up distracting herself with some other task. She couldn’t say  _ why _ she was so afraid. She’d never been given any reason to believe in fortune telling or Divination and the like, and surely if what they’d seen really was a death omen then wouldn’t have at least one of them died already? Over two weeks had passed since fleeing Privet Drive and the two Potters were having more fun than they’d ever had in their lives.

Everywhere they went, Harry and Violet had started looking out for signs of their friends. Plenty of students were arriving in Diagon Alley now, with the start of term so near. Harry met a few of his fellow Gryffindors in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they too were ogling the Firebolt; he and Violet also ran into the real Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy, outside Flourish and Blotts. They didn’t stop to chat; Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist and was being told off by his very formidable-looking grandmother. Walking past the Apothecary Violet was very pleased to encounter someone from her own House — Millicent Bullstrode, a tall, thickset girl in Violet’s year, was quarrelling with a much larger, even thicker man with an impressive set of greying mutton-chops, who turned out to be her father. His sour expression disappeared at once when Violet and Harry were introduced, and Millicent looked mortified when he reached out to give them both vigorous, two-handed handshakes. Violet was mildly surprised to see that he was wearing a very fashionable, yet distinctly Muggle-made wristwatch.

The twins woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking that they would at least meet up with their friends tomorrow on the Hogwarts Express. They got up, got dressed, and split up for one last jaunt around Diagon Alley. Harry wanted to go have another look at the Firebolt, but Violet was determined to get at least another two free ice creams out of Mr. Fortescue before the summer’s end. She had just turned the corner, wondering what flavors she should ask for, when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Sitting there, both of them with cones of ice cream in their hands smiles on their faces, were Cassius and Tracey. Violet stood gaping in the middle of the street and, as if sensing eyes on her, Tracey whipped around and made direct eye contact.

“VIOLET!” she shrieked, jumping up at once and sprinting across the street, where Violet was very nearly bowled over by the force of Tracey’s hug.

“You found us!” squealed Tracey, “I can’t believe it, you found us first!”

“First?” Violet said, grinning as she broke away from the hug. “Were you looking for me, too?”

“Of course we were, we’ve been looking all  _ over _ ! Oh, it’s so good to see you, Vi, I’ve missed you  _ so _ much, you’ve got to tell me everything you’ve been up to since last time I saw — Oh!”

The grin dropped from Tracey’s face as she looked up into Violet’s face — something she previously didn’t have to do, as the pair of them had been the same height for the last two years — and was replaced with a look of shock and horror. Violet didn’t understand until Tracey reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over the side of her cheek.

“What happened to you?” Tracey said, staring. Violet clapped a hand to the side of her own face.

She’d almost forgotten about the bruise that still lingered there, even all these weeks later and against all sense. The evidence of Uncle Vernon’s attack had faded only slightly; Violet’s cheekbone and under-eye were both still a deep, angry purple, though the the surrounding areas had faded from a nasty brown to a yucky, but barely visible yellow. Violet hated the sight of it, but no matter what she did it remained on her face, staring back at her in the mirror every morning.

“It’s nothing,” Violet said, an automatic lie which she regretted as soon as it came out. “Well — it’s not, actually, but I’ll tell you about it later, alright?”

Tracey didn’t look any less concerned, but Violet felt better for coming clean. It was a personal resolution this year to keep her friends more informed — unlike Harry, who told Ron and Hermione just about everything and was nigh inseparable from them, Violet tended to hold her true thoughts and feelings closer to her chest. Not because she didn’t trust Cass and Tracey, but rather to protect them from whatever trouble Violet might have gotten herself into. Her friends didn’t need to suffer for her mistakes.

But it was through seeing Harry with his friends, sharing everything and standing up for one another, solving problems with each others’ help, that made Violet rethink the practice of shutting those closest to her out, even for their own sakes. She loved her friends very dearly and wanted nothing but the best for them, and sharing another warm hug with Cass only solidified that feeling.

“ _ Now _ who’s gotten taller?” he teased, placing a hand on top of Violet’s head and comparing it to his own height — she still only came up to his chin, but that was higher than she’d been the year before.

“And what’s this supposed to be?” said Violet. Cassius let out a squeak of pain as Violet tugged at the short, soft bristles spouting from his chin.

“Oi, careful with that!” he said, rubbing at his face, cheeks gone bright pink. “I’m trying to grow it out . . .”

“No fair, you two,” Tracey pouted, looking them both over. “You’re taller, and you’re hairier, so why do I just look the same?”

“You’re taller, too!” said Violet, standing close to Tracey and measuring the two of them. “Not as tall as  _ me _ , but —”

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Tracey said, but she was clearly fighting back a smile. “Just you wait until next year. I’ll get my braces off by next summer, and then  _ I’ll _ be the pretty one.”

She laughed, as though this were an inside joke of sorts, but Violet was left staring blankly between her and Cassius.

“Which one of us is supposed to be the pretty one now?” she asked, only for Tracey and Cass to say together, “You are.”

This led to a moment of very awkward silence as the three of them all looked at one another, smiling nervously. Violet was both flattered and mortified — once again she was completely out of touch with the way other people saw and thought of her, and not entirely comfortable with the idea of those thoughts being overly favourable. Not only that, but she flat out didn’t agree with it; Tracey was clearly the prettier of the two of them. She wasn’t scrawny with knobbly knees and too much chin, and her was beautifully thick and curly without twisting itself into the knotted mess that Violet usually woke up to. But by the time it occured to Violet to say of this out loud, hoping to relieve some of the tension that now hung between them, the moment had passed and Cass was clearing his throat to move things along.

“So where’s Harry?” he asked, looking around as though her brother might be lurking in the windows of one of the nearby shops. “Don’t tell me you two are spending time apart?”

“We don’t do  _ everything _ together,” said Violet. “He went to the Quidditch supply shop to stare at the new broom they’ve got in the window, but I’ve already seen it the last five times he went to go look.”

“Have you got all your school supplies yet?” Tracey asked.

“Yeah, we got everything last week, actually.”

“Last week? But then what are you doing here today?”

“D’you mean the Muggles let you come back just to see us?” Cassius said incredulously.

“Er — no, I mean —” Violet swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Look, can we sit down? There’s actually a lot that’s happened I need to tell you about.”

Violet sat across from Cass and Tracey at their table, fidgeting anxiously as she struggled to explain all the chaos that had taken place since her birthday. The two of them grimaced as she provided background on Aunt Marge and why her visit was so horrible, and Tracey gasped loudly when Violet confessed what she had done to the woman. Neither of them interrupted as Violet told the tale of her and Harry’s fear of punishment and plans of going on the run; their accidental journey on the Knight Bus; the very stressful meeting with the Minister of Magic himself, and the last three weeks they’d spent together wandering around Diagon Alley. She stopped talking only briefly when Mr. Fortescue silently placed a large bowl of banana-flavoured ice cream in front of her with a smile and a wink. By the time her bowl was empty and her story was over, Violet’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly hold her spoon.

“So that’s what’s been going on!” she finished, smiling with a brightness she didn’t feel. “I — I know it sounds wild, and I’m sorry for not writing and telling you sooner, but —”

“Are you okay?” Tracey asked suddenly, her expression so earnest it hurt to look at. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it — and that’s fine, we don’t have to! — but . . . your face . . . Violet, are you really alright?”

Violet’s face, speaking of it, was suddenly feeling very wet. For all her talk about holding back the tears and exercising more self control, the theory was proving difficult to put into practice.

“These last few weeks,” she started, looking down at her clasped, trembling hands, “have been some of the happiest of my whole life . . . But the weeks before that were awful. Really, really awful. Things hadn’t been that bad at the Dursleys since Harry and I were little, and even then — nobody’s ever walked out before, y’know? It just feels different this time. I don’t usually want to go back, of course but now — now I don’t know if I even  _ can _ go back there.”

Voicing the fear out loud solidified it in terrible clarity; coming back from Hogwarts at the end of the year and finding no one waiting for her and Harry at the train station was a nightmare that she’d had many a time over the last two years. Being stranded and alone, with only her brother beside her and even less people than usual to turn to for help.

But as Violet sat there, lower lip trembling and heart pounding, she felt a soft, gentle hand close around her hand, followed by another. She blinked through her tears and found both Tracey and Cass leaning across the table to hold her hands and comfort her. They met her gaze with eyes filled with care and concern, and that simple gesture meant more to her than she could have ever thought possible.

“We’re here for you, Vi,” said Cassius quietly. “No matter what, no matter where you end up. You’re kind of stuck with us.”

“Absolutely,” said Tracey, giving Violet’s hand a firm squeeze. “If those Dursleys don’t want you back, well, I guess you’ll just have to come live with me! We’ve got a guest room that no one but my aunties ever use and there’s a park nearby where we can hang out,  _ oh _ , and there’s this cute little cafe on the corner —”

The next half an hour went by in a blur of laughter and petty arguments over what life would be like if Violet split her summers between living with Cass and living with Tracey. It was fun and fanciful and made her feel immeasurably better, and by the time Tracey’s father came out of Gringotts and found them, the tears of Violet’s face had dried into memory.

After tearfully saying goodbye to Tracey, even though they were going to see each other again the very next morning, Violet and Cassius spent some time wandering through Diagon Alley together. Violet, who was by now well-acquainted with the cobblestone streets, took great joy in pointing out all sorts of interesting shop windows and regular customers to him. It was strange at first, just the two of them — at school, Violet was used to all of them being together in a group. Cass was two years older and didn’t share any classes with her and Tracey, so while they saw plenty of one another it meant that the only time they had together was at meals and overlapping free periods.

But Cassius was funny and easy to talk to, and seemed to take just as much enjoyment from all the silly little oddities they passed that she did. When the two of them bumped into his mother on their way back to the Leaky Cauldron, they parted with a short, slightly awkward hug. Cass’s new facial hair scraped against Violet’s forehead, and she accidentally stepped very painfully on his toes, but they got there in the end.

When Violet stepped inside the pub, alone but smiling, she was immediately welcomed by the loud, enthusiastic greetings of her brother, Ron, Hermione, and Mr. Weasley, who were all seated at one of the long tables in the bar.

“There you are!” said Harry, jumping up to meet her. “I was getting worried — did you find Tracey and Warrington?”

“You know what his name is, Harry,” Violet said reproachfully, “just because he’s in my House doesn’t mean you have to be so hostile.”

“I wasn’t being —” Harry started, face going slightly red. He was interrupted, however, as Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden with shopping bags and followed by her twin sons, Fred and George, who were about to start their fifth year at Hogwarts, the same year as Cassius; the newly elected Head Boy, as Violet had been informed by Harry, Percy; and the Weasleys’ youngest child, and only girl, Ginny.

Ginny, who had always been very taken with Harry, seemed even more heartily embarrassed than usual when she saw him, perhaps because he had saved her live during their previous year at Hogwarts. She went very red and muttered “hello” without looking at him. To Violet, however, she smiled broadly and greeted her with a warm, friendly hug.

“It’s good to see you again,” Violet said returning both the hug and the smile. Ginny had confided in her last year during a very dark and dangerous time, and Violet had always appreciated that trust. She only wished she’d been able to help Ginny more before badly needing help herself — the last two months of her second year, Violet had lain immobile in the hospital wing, blind and oblivious to her surroundings; she’d been Petrified by the same Basilisk that Harry would later kill.

While she greeted Ginny, Percy stepped forward and held out his hand solemnly as though he and Harry had never met and said, “Harry. How nice to see you.”

“Hello, Percy,” said Harry, clearly trying not to laugh.

“And Violet — I hope you’re well?” said Percy pompously, shaking her hand. It was rather like being introduced to the mayor.

“Very well, thanks —”

“Harry!” said George, elbowing Percy out of the way and bowing deeply. “Simply  _ splendid _ to see you, old boy —”

“Marvelous,” said Fred, shoving Percy again so that he could seize Violet’s hand in turn. “Absolutely spiffing.”

Percy scowled.

“That’s enough, now,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her and seizing her hand too. “How really corking to see you —”

“I said that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing her shopping in an empty chair. “Hello, Harry, Violet, dear. I suppose you’ve heard our exciting news?” She pointed to the brand-new silver badge on Percy’s chest. “Second Head Boy in the family!” she said, swelling with pride.

“And last,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning suddenly. “I notice they haven’t made you two prefects.”

“What do we want to be prefects for?” said George, looking revolted at the very idea. “It’d take all the fun out of life.”

“But think of all the extra things you could get away with!” Violet said, grinning at them. “If you were prefects nobody could tell you off for being in places you shouldn’t, because who’s to say you  _ really _ shouldn’t be there after all?”

Fred and George looked at one another, eyes wide, and then each slowly returned her grin.

“Bloody hell, that’s brilliant,” said Fred.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said George, “but I’m really pleased to have a friend in Slytherin, actually.”

“We’re not all bad,” Violet said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Some of us are even  _ nice _ .”

“Yeah . . .” said George, his grin widening. “Yeah, I reckon some of you are.”

 

Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom the innkeeper put three tables together in the parlor, and the seven Weasleys, both Potters, and Hermione ate their way through five delicious courses.

“How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?” asked Fred as they dug into a sumptuous chocolate pudding. Violet was sitting between him and George and had to struggle constantly for elbow room.

“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr. Weasley.

Everyone looked up at him.

“Why?” said Percy curiously.

“It’s because of you, Perce,” said George seriously. “And there’ll be little flags on the bonnet, with HB on them —”

“— for Humongous Bighead,” said Fred.

Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted into their pudding.

“Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?” Percy asked again, in a dignified voice.

“Well, as we haven’t got one anymore,” said Mr. Weasley, “— and as I work there, they’re doing me a favor —”

His voice was casual, but across the table from her Violet saw Harry’s eyes narrow. Was there something he knew about it that she didn’t?

“Good thing, too,” said Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you realize how much luggage you’ve got between you? A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle Underground . . . You are all packed, aren’t you?”

“Ron hasn’t put all his new things in his trunk yet,” said Percy, in a long-suffering voice. “He’s dumped them on my bed.”

“You’d better go and pack properly, Ron, because we won’t have much time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley called down the table. Ron scowled at Percy.

After dinner everyone felt very full and sleepy. One by one they made their way upstairs to their rooms to check their things for the next day. Ron and Percy were next door to Harry and Violet. The two of them had just finished packing their supplies away and locking up their trunks when they heard angry voices through the wall, and went to see what was going on.

The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was shouting.

“It was  _ here _ , on the bedside table, I took it off for polishing —”

“I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back.

“What’s up?” said Harry.

“My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy, rounding on the twins.

“So’s Scabbers’ rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing things out of his trunk to look. “I think I might’ve left it in the bar —”

“You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my badge!” yelled Percy.

“We’ll get Scabbers’ stuff, we’re packed,” said Harry to Ron, and he grabbed Violet’s hand and pulled her along downstairs.

“What on earth is ‘rat tonic?’” Violet asked as they reached the stairs.

“Ron reckons Scabbers is sick,” Harry told her. “We stopped by the place you got Crookshanks from and he bought something that’s supposed to make him better, I guess?”

“Poor Scabbers,” Violet muttered, thinking of the grey, rather shabby looking rat that Ron kept as a pet. As she understood it had once belonged to Percy, before being passed down, like most everything in the Weasley family, to a younger sibling. She remembered suddenly that the door to their room had been left open with Crookshanks sleeping inside — Crookshanks wasn’t fond of Scabbers at  _ all _ , no matter how much Violet scolded him. If he got out and slipped into Ron and Percy’s room . . .

But her worries were interrupted halfway along the passage to the bar, which was now very dark, when she heard another pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second later, she recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’. She stopped and yanked on Harry’s hand to stop him barging onward, not wanting them to know they’d been heard arguing, but the sound of her own name made her stop.

“. . . makes no sense not to tell them,” Mr. Weasley was saying heatedly. “Harry and Violet have got a right to know. I’ve tried to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating the pair of them like children. They’re thirteen years old and —”

“Arthur, the truth would terrify them!” said Mrs. Weasley shrilly. “Do you want to send the twins back to school with that hanging over them? For heaven’s sake, they’re  _ happy _ not knowing!”

“I don’t want to make them miserable, I want to put them on guard!” retorted Mr. Weasley. “You know what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by themselves — and poor Violet, she’s no better, even with what happened to her last year! But they mustn’t do that this year! When I think what could have happened to them that night they ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked them up, I’m prepared to bet the pair of them would have been found dead before the Ministry found them.”

“But they’re  _ not _ dead, they’re both fine, so what’s the point —”

“Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is, but he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban, and that’s supposed to be impossible. It’s been a month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, and I don’t care what Fudge keeps telling the  _ Daily Prophet _ , we’re not nearer catching Black than inventing self-spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is that Black’s after —”

“But Harry and Violet will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.”

“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can break out of Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.”

“But no one’s really sure that’s Black’s after Violet and Harry —”

There was a thud on wood, making Violet jump. It was a sound she knew all too well, and she was sure Mr. Weasley had banged his fist on the table.

“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They didn’t report it in the press because Fudge wanted it kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the night Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black had been talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts . . . he’s at Hogwarts.’ Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. And if Violet were to get in the way — Listen, if you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will bring You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had twelve years to brood on that . . .”

There was more silence. Violet, pressed close to Harry, who was pressed close to the door, could feel her heart pounding frantically in her chest.

“Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right. But you’re forgetting Albus Dumbledore. I don’t think anything could hurt the Harry and Violet at Hogwarts while Dumbledore’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about all this?”

“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the entrances to the school grounds. He wasn’t happy about it, but he agreed.”

“Not happy? Why shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re there to catch Black?”

“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said Mr. Weasley heavily. “Nor am I, if it comes to that . . . but when you’re dealing with a wizard like Black, you sometimes have to join forces with those you’d rather avoid.”

“If they save the children —”

“— then I will never say another word against them,” said Mr. Weasley wearily. “It’s late, Molly, we’d better go up . . .”

Violet heard chairs move. She stood frozen, but Harry took hold of her arm and, quietly as he could, pulled her down the passage to the bar and out of sight. The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later footsteps told them that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were climbing the stairs.

Violet stood in the shadows, fidgeting nervously while Harry searched for Ron’s bottle of rat tonic. He found it lying under the table they had sat at earlier. The two of them waited until they heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom door close, then headed back upstairs with the bottle. Violet reached for Harry’s free hand and found it clammy.

Fred and George were crouching in the shadows on the landing, heaving with laughter as they listened to Percy dismantling his and Ron’s room in search of his badge.

“We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to Harry. “We’ve been improving it.”

The badge now read  _ Bighead Boy _ .

Harry forced a laugh, which Violet couldn’t quite manage. He opened the door to give Ron the rat tonic and as he did a streak of orange went flying past his ankles.

“Crookshanks,  _ no! _ ” Violet cried, but too late. Scabbers, who was sleeping soundly on Ron’s pillow, disappeared under a mass of fur and claws as Crookshanks pounced. 

“ _ Leave him alone _ !” Ron roared, making a grab for the cat as Scabber’s panicked squeaking cut through the room. He let out a yelp as Crookshanks paw streaked out, raking claws down the back of Ron’s hand. Ron, furious, grabbed one of his new course books and flung it at Crookshanks.

“Don’t you hit him!” Violet screamed, shoving Ron hard out of the way as she moved toward the bed. “Don’t you hit my bloody cat! _CROOKSHANKS!_ _That’s enough_!”

Crookshanks, who had never shown any aggression toward Violet whatsoever, let out a great hiss as she wrapped both arms around his middle and forcibly yanked him away from Scabbers. The rat bolted across the bedsheets and flung himself to the floor, scampering underneath the wardrobe as fast as his little legs would go. Ron dove after him, landing flat on the floor and reaching desperately into the narrow gap.

“That bloody beast!” he grunted. “Rest and relaxation, that’s what he needs — how’s he supposed to get it with that  _ monster _ running around?”

“Blimey, what’s going on in here?” said Fred, appearing in the doorway behind them. Violet, restraining a struggling Crookshanks, let out a loud sob.

“What did you say to her?” George demanded, looking from Percy’s shocked face to Ron, still flat on the floorboards. He reached out to put a hand on Violet’s back, voice softening. “Hey, what’s the matter, you? What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Violet gasped, holding Crookshanks tighter against her. She squeezed her eyes shut to try and stop the tears from coming in front of all these people. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean —”

She couldn’t take it. Pushing past Fred, George, and Harry, Violet burst from room number twelve and darted straight into eleven. The door slammed shut without her even touching it and Crookshanks bolted straight beneath the bed as soon as she loosened her hold on him. Violet collapsed face-first onto the bed and allowed herself to properly cry.

She didn’t hear the door open, or Harry’s footsteps as he crossed the room toward her some minutes later. But when the bed dipped and a pair of arms wrapped tight around her, there was only one person they could have belonged to.

“Scabbers is okay,” Harry said quietly, rubbing circles into Violet’s back. “Didn’t even have a scratch on him . . . Ron said to tell you he’s sorry, for what he said and for throwing the book . . .”

Violet’s whole body was still shaking with tears. She was relieved to hear that Scabbers wasn’t hurt — but still mortified by the entire scene. This wasn’t the first time her cat had tried to kill Ron’s rat. Surely Ron must hate her for owning what he considered a horrible beast.

But more than what had just happened, Violet was deeply upset by everything she and Harry had heard coming from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. The fear and anxiety gripped her insides, turning them to ice — this explained everything. Fudge had been lenient with her because he was so relieved to find her and Harry alive. He’d made them promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were plenty of wizards to keep an eye on them. And he was sending two Ministry cars to take them all to the train station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look after Harry and Violet until they were on the train.

“I’m so s-scared,” Violet breathed into her brother’s shoulder, hiccoughing slightly. “Everybody’s been h-hiding it from us, but all this time Sirius Black has been out th-there trying to kill us . . . I though this year we could be s- _ safe _ . . .”

“We  _ will _ be,” Harry said insistently. “You heard Mrs. Weasley; we’ll be at Hogwarts with Professor Dumbledore. He’s the only one Voldemort’s ever feared, remember? Black’s no match for him. He’ll protect us. And I’ll protect  _ you _ .”

Violet felt Harry press a soft kiss to the side of her head and let out a fresh peal of sobs. She did feel safe with Harry — she had  _ always _ felt safe with Harry and he had never disappointed her — but Sirius Black had murdered thirteen people with a single curse. He was mad, he was a fanatic for Voldemort, and he wanted to kill the two of them. Harry was only thirteen, just like her. The most powerful spell either of them knew how to cast was a Disarming Charm, and what use could that be against a madman hellbent on seeing them dead?

“Violet,” Harry said, his voice very serious. He loosened his arms a little and waited for her to look blearily up at him. “We’re  _ not _ going to be murdered.”

Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of Magnolia Crescent crossed Violet’s mind.  _ What to do when you know the worst is coming . . . _

“We’re not going to be murdered,” Violet repeated softly. The words didn’t bring her any particular sort of comfort, but they did make Harry smile encouragingly at her, and really that was all she could ask for.


	5. The Dementor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Tom woke the twins the next morning with his usual toothless grin and a tray of tea. Violet got up first to try and make peace with Crookshanks, who had not slept on her stomach last night as he usually did. She found him brooding underneath the bed and had a time coaxing him out from there and into his travel carrier. Harry was having just as much trouble persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back into her cage when Ron banged his way into the room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and looking irritable.

“The sooner we get on the train, the better,” he said. “At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his photo of Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his  _ girlfriend _ . She’s hidden her face under the frame because her nose has gone all blotchy . . .”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Violet heard her brother say and shot him a warning glare, but fortunately he was interrupted by Fred and George, who had looked in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy again.

They headed down to breakfast, where Mr. Weasley was reading the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ with a furrowed brow and Mrs. Weasley was telling Hermione and Ginny about a love potion she’d made as a young girl. All three of them were rather giggly as Violet made her way to join them.

There was little time to speak to anyone in the chaos of leaving; they were too busy heaving all their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron’s narrow staircase and piling them up near the door, with Hedwig and Hermes, Percy’s screech owl, perches on top in their cages. Violet kept hold of Crookshanks’ carrier, not wanting to leave him out of her sight for even a moment.

“It’s alright, Crooks,” she muttered soothingly to him. “I’ll let you out on the train.”

Ron, who was standing nearby, shot Violet a scowl but said nothing.

Mr. Weasley, who had been outside waiting for the Ministry cars, stuck his head inside.

“They’re here,” he said. “Violet, Harry, come on.”

Mr. Weasley marched the twins across the short stretch of pavement toward the first of two old-fashioned dark green cars, each of which was driven by a furtive-looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet.

“In you get, children,” said Mr. Weasley, glancing up and down the crowded street. Violet looked longingly at the car containing Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, and the twins, but silently got in beside her brother without a fuss. The two of them were joined shortly by Ron, Hermione, and, to Ron’s disgust, Percy.

The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful compared with Harry and Violet’s trip on the Knight Bus. The Ministry of Magic cars seemed almost ordinary, though Violet noticed that they could slide through gaps that Uncle Vernon’s new company car certainly couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s Cross with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers found them trolleys, unloaded their trunks, touched their hats in salute to Mr. Weasley, and drove away, somehow managing to jump to the head of an unmoving line at the traffic lights.

Mr. Weasley kept Violet and Harry close to each of his elbows all the way into the station.

“Right then,” he said, glancing around them. “Let’s do this in pairs, as there are so many of us. I’ll go through first with Harry. Percy, with Violet, if you please.”

Percy immediately stepped up beside Violet and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, nodding dutifully to his father. Violet, unhappy at being touched, stood and seethed as she watched Harry and Mr. Weasley casually vanish into the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“Onward, then,” said Percy importantly, practically steering Violet toward the solid wall. She gripped the trolley handle tight as they approached, blinked, and —

In less than a moment they had passed through the barrier onto platform nine and three-quarters and looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed with witches and wizards seeing their children onto the train.

Mr. Weasley and Harry were standing a short distance away waiting for them. Violet jogged over to her brother, but Percy had shifted his attention further down the platform.

“Ah, there’s Penelope!” said Percy, smoothing his hair and going pink again. Harry caught Violet’s eye, and they both turned away to hide their laughter as Percy strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with his chest thrown out so that she couldn’t miss his shiny badge.

Once the remaining Weasleys and Hermione had joined them, Harry and Ron led the way to the end of the train, past packed compartments, to a carriage that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto it, stowed Hedwig and Crookshanks in the luggage rack, then went back outside to say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley kissed all her children, then Hermione, and finally Harry and Violet. They were both embarrassed, but really quite pleased, when she gave them each an extra hug.

“Do take care, won’t you, dears?” she said as she straightened up, her eyes oddly bright. Then she opened her enormous handbag and said, “I’ve made you all sandwiches . . . here’s you are, Ron . . . no, they’re not corned beef . . . Fred? Where’s Fred? Here you are, dear . . .”

“Children,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “come over here a moment.”

He jerked his head toward a pillar, and the twins followed him behind it, leaving the others crowded around Mrs. Weasley.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you before you leave —” said Mr. Weasley, in a tense voice.

“It’s alright, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “We already know.”

“You know? How could you know?”

“We — er — we heard you and Mrs. Weasley talking last night,” said Violet guiltily. “We didn’t mean to! Sorry —”

“That’s not the way I’d have chosen for you to find out,” said Mr. Weasley, looking anxious.

“No — honestly, it’s okay,” Violet went on. “This way you haven’t broken your word to Fudge and we know what’s going on.”

“Violet, Harry, you must be very scared —”

“We’re not,” said Harry sincerely. He reached down and grabbed hold on Violet’s hand. “ _ Really, _ ” he added, because Mr. Weasley was looking disbelieving. “I’m not trying to be a hero, but I can look after myself and my sister, and seriously, Sirius Black can’t be worse than Voldemort, can he?”

Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of the name but overlooked it.

“Children, I knew you were, well, made of stronger stuff than Fudge seems to think, and I’m obviously pleased that you’re not scared, but —”

“Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, who was now shepherding the rest onto the train. “Arthur, what are you doing? It’s about to go!”

“They’re coming, Molly!” said Mr. Weasley but he turned back to the twins and kept talking in a lower and more hurried voice. “Listen, I want you both to give me your word —”

“— that we’ll be good and stay in the castle?” said Harry gloomily.

“Not entirely,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked more serious than the twins had ever seen him. “Harry, Violet, swear to me you won’t go  _ looking _ for Black.”

Violet stared.

“What?”

There was a loud whistle. Guards were walking along the train, slamming all the doors shut.

“Promise me, you two,” said Mr. Weasley, talking more quickly still, “that whatever happens —”

“Why would we go looking for someone that wants to kill us?” said Harry blankly.

“Swear to me that whatever you might hear —”

“Arthur, quickly!” cried Mrs. Weasley.

Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to move. Harry and Violet ran to the compartment door and Ron threw it open and stood back to let them on. They leaned out of the window at waved at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley until the train turned a corner and blocked them from view.

“I need to talk to you in private,” Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione as they train picked up speed.

“Go away, Ginny,” said Ron.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny huffily.

“Come with me,” Violet said quickly before she could stalk off. “I was going to look for my friends — care to join me?”

A smile immediately lit up Ginny’s freckled face and she joined Violet in wandering up the corridor, looking for Tracey and Cassius or, at the very least, an empty compartment. They found neither, and ended up doubling back the way they’d came, all the way down to the very end on the train. Violet was just about to give up when the compartment door beside her slid open and a loud screech came from within.

“Found you!” said Tracey Davis, flinging herself out at Violet, who only barely managed to catch her in a hug. “Took you long enough, too! We saw Harry pass by earlier, but he said you’d gone looking for us, and we thought about going to look for  _ you _ but the train is already so full, Cass was worried someone might try to take our car —”

“Are you gonna let her in or not?” Cassius called from inside the compartment. Tracey laughed and tried to pull Violet along inside, but Violet held back a moment.

“This is Ginny Weasley,” she said, nudging Ginny into view. “She’s my friend, too — d’you mind if she sits with us?”

Tracey and Cass both nodded enthusiastically and Ginny, pink-faced and stammering thanks, joined the three of them in the compartment.

They chatted for a bit, making small talk and introductions and settling in together. Violet made sure the compartment door was firmly shut before fulfilling her promise to let Crookshanks out; he sprang out as soon as the carrier door was open and leapt into Tracey’s lap.

“He’s still angry with me,” Violet said, frowning sadly. “I had to shout at him last night for nearly eating Ron’s pet rat, again.”

“It wouldn’t have done him any good,” Ginny said, scrunching her nose up. “Scabbers is skin and bones as it is, and he’s been getting worse ever since we got back from Egypt. Ron’s worried he’s going to kick it any day now.”

“That’s horrible!” said Tracey. “Poor little rat . . . Maybe the heat was too much for him?”

“He didn’t seem bothered while we were there — even though he  _ did _ almost get lost in a pyramid. Ron dropped him while he was running away from a horrible mummy or something. I don’t know what it was, Mum wouldn’t let me in to see.”

“Why not?” Cass asked. The top of Ginny’s cheeks and the bridge of her freckled nose went bright pink.

“She didn’t want me to get scared,” she muttered. “The whole place was supposedly full of mutated Muggles who’d tried to break in and steal the treasure buried with the mummies, and if Ron was scared I s’pose it  _ must _ have been bad, but . . . Mum’s been really sensitive about upsetting me, after — y’know . . . last year.”

‘Last year’ meaning, of course, the nightmare that Ginny had lived while under the influence of Lord Voldemort himself, or whatever was left of him, in the form of his childhood diary. Thanks to Lucius Malfoy, the father of Violet and Harry’s archrival, Draco, the diary had come into an unaware Ginny’s possession and proceeded to warp and take over her mind. She was forced to write cryptic warnings on the walls and set an ancient Basilisk on Muggle-born students, until she herself was eventually taken into the Chamber of Secrets.

Ginny had confided in Violet about the diary’s power, but neither of them had understood how truly dangerous it was until it was too late. When Violet herself was Petrified by the Basilisk, it was Harry who ventured into the Chamber of Secrets, slew the monster, destroyed Voldemort’s diary, and rescued Ginny at the end of the last school year. It was a lot to take in, and certainly more than any eleven year old should have to face. Violet completely understood why Mrs. Weasley would be even more protective than usual of her youngest child and only daughter.

But the mention of loads of dead Muggles jogged another memory in Violet’s mind.  _ He killed thirteen people with a single curse _ . . .

“Violet?”

Tracey’s hand reached across the aisle, gently resting over Violet’s own.

“Sorry,” said Violet, “did I miss something?”

“No, but you were just sort of . . . staring,” Tracey said. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Violet winced at her own automatic lie. “Well — no, actually, I’m not fine. Sorry, I’m so used to — look, there’s something I need to tell you about —”

Violet was cut off by the compartment door sliding open suddenly and Ron stepped inside, carrying a glowing, spinning top in his hand. It was emitting a high, tinny sort of whistle.

“Here, can you do anything about this?” he said, shoving the thing toward Violet, who took it in both hands, confused.

“Isn’t this Harry’s?”

“Yeah, I got it for him in Egypt,” said Ron. “S’pose it’s broken or something, it keeps buzzing at nothing.”

“What  _ is _ it?” Violet asked.

“It’s a Sneakoscope — it’s meant to tell you when someone untrustworthy’s around. Mind you, it’s a very cheap one,” said Ron. “It went highwire just now and all we’re doing is sitting around and talking. Harry’s worried it’ll wake up the bloke in our compartment.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“I know, I don’t think it’s making  _ that _ much noise —”

“No, Ron — what bloke? Where are you sitting?”

“Oh.” Ron’s ears went pink. “Er, just next door —”

Violet jumped to her feet and pushed past Ron into the corridor. The next door over was open as well, and inside she found Harry, Hermione, an empty seat that presumably belonged to Ron and, leaning fast asleep against the window, was a man that Violet had never seen before. She checked on the threshold.

The Hogwarts Express was usually reserved for students and she had never seen an adult there before, except for the witch who pushed the food cart. The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes that had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his light brown hair was flecked with grey.

“Hey, Vi,” said Harry quietly, looking at her in surprise. “Is something the matter?”

Violet pointed at the strange man.

“ _ Who is that _ ?” she hissed. “Why are you sitting in here with him?”

“Professor R. J. Lupin,” said Hermione at once, pointing up to the luggage rack above the man’s head, where there was a small, battered case held together with a large quantity of nearly knotted string. The name  _ Professor R. J. Lupin _ was stamped across one corner in peeling letters.

“Everywhere else was full,” Harry said simply, shrugging. “He’s been asleep the whole time, anyways. He’s not bothering us.”

“But what’s he  _ doing _ here?” Violet insisted — she felt a strange panic, seeing a grown man travelling in a train full of children with no warning, not even taking a private compartment to himself. The sight of him in his dingy robes and scuffed shoes made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though she couldn’t explain why. She stuck out her other hand toward him, which was still holding Harry’s pocket Sneakoscope, and glared at her brother when the thing lit back up and started spinning again.

“Oh, c’mon!” said Ron, appearing behind her. “We’ve been trying not to wake him up!”

“Take it back to your cabin!” Harry whispered fiercely, closing Violet’s hand around the whining top and trying to push her back out the door.

“But, Harry —”

“Look, it’s fine, he’s a professor! He’s not going to do anything to us!”

“I’ll remember that next time you think Snape’s out to get you,” Violet warned, allowing herself to be shoved into the corridor. Harry scowled. He stepped aside to let Ron back in before closing the door in her face. Violet was left alone in the corridor, watching the Sneakoscope slowly die down and come to a halt in her open palm. She shook it slightly and, when it failed to respond, jammed the thing into her pocket and went back to her own compartment.

“What was all that about?” asked Cassius, no longer slumped across the seat.

“There’s a man in Harry’s compartment.”

“Oh,  _ weird _ ,” Tracey said, frowning. “Like an  _ adult _ ? What’s he doing on the train?”

“His case says he’s a professor,” Violet told them, “and Harry seems to think that makes it all fine to have him around. I’ve never seen a professor on the train before, have you?”

Tracey, Cass, and Ginny all shook their heads.

After a moment, Tracey said, “So . . . what were you going to tell us about?”

Violet explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s argument and the warning Mr. Weasley had given her and Harry. When she’d finished, Cass looked thunderstruck and Ginny’s face had gone very white, and Tracey had her hands over her mouth. She finally lowered them to say, “Sirius Black escaped to come after  _ you _ ? Oh, Violet . . . you must be so frightened, you’ve got to be really, really, careful. You can’t go looking for trouble —”

“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” said Violet, nettled. “It’s not like I go running straight toward things that want to kill me. Usually they come running at  _ me _ .”

“I know, but you can’t go wandering off alone anymore —”

“I  _ don’t _ go wandering off alone!” Violet protested, flushing slightly because she knew that wasn’t entirely true. Several times she’d gotten herself into sticky situations by sneaking out at night, by herself, without telling anyone where she was going. It was just easier that way, she told herself. But with the way Tracey was looking at her now —

“But it’s just Harry he’s after, isn’t it?” said Cass suddenly. “Harry’s the one who stopped You-Know-Who, not you. Why would Black want to kill you if you had nothing to do with it?”

“I was there, too, Cassius,” Violet said, now more than a little angry. “Voldemort wanted to kill me, too” — Everyone else flinched visibly at the name — “We don’t even know why he wanted us dead, but he wanted to kill us  _ both _ . It was chance that he picked Harry to kill first over me. We were babies then, and we’re just kids now. Who  _ cares _ why Black wants us dead? Everyone says he’s a madman. He just  _ does _ .”

There was silence as Violet’s words sank in, ringing off the walls of the compartment. She was breathing hard and her hands were clenched at her sides. Her friends were taking the news worse than Violet expected.

“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” said Cassius uncomfortably, not meeting Violet’s eyes. “No one’s ever done it before. And he was a top-security prisoner, too, not like —”

Cass cut himself off suddenly. He stared at the floor, frowning.

“But they’ll catch him, won’t they?” said Tracey earnestly. “I mean, they’ve got all the Muggles looking out for him too. My dad and I saw him on the evening news before we even found out he was a wizard . . .”

“Dad keeps saying the Azkaban guards will get him,” said Ginny quietly. “He says they’re really angry . . .”

Cassius shuddered. Another long silence stretched between them, becoming more uncomfortable by the second until Tracey cleared her throat and said loudly, “So, who’s excited for Hogsmeade?”

“Oh, you’ll love it!” said Cass, brightening up and grinning at her. “Wait till you’ve seen Honeydukes.”

“What’s that?” said Tracey.

“Only the best sweets shop in Britain,” Cass said smugly. “They’ve got  _ everything _ there . . . Pepper Imps and great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mouse and clotted cream, and really excellent Sugar Quills — better than the ones the Weasley twins got you last year, Violet, they last for  _ ages _ —”

“Oh, Cass, stop it, you’re making me hungry,” Tracey whined, but Cassius only went on louder.

“— and massive sherbert balls that make you levitate a few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them, and Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum! That’s my favourite, it makes loads of little blue bubbles that won’t pop for days — Mother won’t let me chew it in the house anymore —”

Tracey clapped her hands over her ears and groaned loudly as Cass went on describing all manner of sweets and confections. He was grinning all the while, but Violet’s heart had sank into her stomach since the very first mention of Hogsmeade. It must have showed on her face, as well, because Ginny gave nudged her softly in the arm.

“Aren’t you excited, too?” she asked quietly. “Fred and George have told me loads about Hogsmeade, but I’ve never been either.”

“I s’pose I’ll have to get them to tell me about it, too,” Violet said, smiling bitterly. When Ginny looked confused, she sighed and leaned in to mutter, “The Dursleys didn’t sign our permission slips. Harry and I can’t go.”

Ginny looked stricken.

“But that’s awful!” she said, and was fortunately drowned out by the sound of Tracey thwacking Cassius repeatedly on the arm for continuing to tease her. “Can’t someone else give you permission? Dumbledore, or — or Professor Snape?”

The idea had never occured to Violet. As Head of Slytherin House, Professor Snape _ was _ in a position of authority over her, and had once told her it was his duty to look after the students in his care. Maybe she could remind him of that and convince him to sign the forms — or  _ her _ form, at least. Violet doubted very much that Snape would do anything to help Harry, who wasn’t in his House and whom he seemed to greatly dislike.

“And if he won’t,” said Ginny, dropping her voice to even lower conspiratorial levels, “let me know and I’ll put in a word with Fred and George. They knows loads of secret passages in and out of the castle.”

“Th-thank you, Ginny,” Violet said, processing. “I might just take you up on that.”

The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the scenery outside the window became wilder and darker while the clouds overhead thickened. People were chasing backward and forward past the door of their compartment. Crookshanks had now settled in the empty seat to Violet’s left, not touching her and not purring, but it was closer than he’d gotten all day.

At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart arrived at the compartment door. Tracey finally got her hands on some of the sweets Cassius had got her craving, and Violet bought plenty of Cauldron Cakes and Chocolate Frogs to go around; she had to press extras into a flustered Ginny’s hands.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet further north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but Violet was still comfortable and cozy with her friends and her food.

“We must be nearly there,” said Cass, peering out the now completely black window.

The words had hardly left him when the train started to slow down.

“Great,” said Cass, standing up to stretch into front of the window. “I can’t wait to get to the feast. I’ve really missed the food at school, y’know . . .”

“We can’t be there yet,” said Tracey checking her watch; the band was wrapped in brightly colored string and tiny beads, and she had likely made it herself.

“So why are we stopping?”

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows.

Violet, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor.

“What’s going on?” she heard Harry’s voice ask from beside her, and saw his head sticking out into the corridor as well.

“I don’t know,” Violet said. “I was hoping you or somebody else did —”

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into darkness.

“Violet!” said Harry’s voice from beside her, and she felt a hand grasping at her shoulder. “Come on, come in here with me.”

“But my friends —”

“ _ Please _ , Vi. They can come too.”

“Tracey?” Violet said, turning around to speak blindly into the black compartment behind her. “Cass, Ginny? D’you want to come with me into Harry’s compartment?”

“Do you think we’ve broken down?” said Tracey’s voice, high with uncertainty and nerves. There was a soft shuffle as the three of them stood up, groping blindly for Violet and the door. They all eventually made their way out into the corridor, and then squeezed their way into the other compartment with Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Who’s that?” said Hermione.

“It’s just us,” Ginny said. “Sorry — d’you know what’s happening?”

“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said from somewhere by the window. “I think people are coming aboard . . .”

“People?” Violet squeaked, panic gripping her. “What people? What’s happening?”

“Come sit by me,” said Harry, tightly taking hold of her hand. “And the rest of you, come in and sit down.”

There was another moment of awkward shuffling, following by a thud and two loud squeals of pain.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s  _ that _ ?”

“Tracey?”

“Hermione?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t see anything —”

“It’s alright — here, come and sit here —”

“Not here!” said Ron hurriedly, “ _ I’m _ here!”

“Ouch!” said Violet, as someone trod painfully on her foot.

“Quiet!” said a hoarse voice suddenly.

Violet suddenly remembered the man in the compartment; Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last. She could hear his movements in the corner. None of them spoke.

There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked alert and wary.

“Stay where you are,” he said in the same hoarse voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of fire held out in front of him.

But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could reach it.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames in Lupin’s hand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Violet’s eyes darted downward, and what she saw made her stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, graying, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water . . .

But it was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed Violet’s gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak.

And then the thing beneath the hood, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.

An intense cold swept over them all. Violet felt her own breath catch in her chest. Harry’s hand went slack in her grip. The cold went deeper than her skin. It was inside her chest, it was inside her very heart . . .

Violet’s vision went blurry. Her eyes rolled up into her head. She couldn’t see. She was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in her ears as though of water. She was being dragged downward, the roaring growing louder . . .

And then, from far away, she heard screaming, terrible, terrified, pleading screams. She wanted to help whoever it was, she tried to move her arms, but couldn’t . . . a thick white fog was swirling around her, inside her —

“Violet!  _ Violet _ , wake up!”

Someone was shaking her.

Violet opened her eyes; there were lanterns above her, and the floor was shaking — the Hogwarts Express was moving again and the lights had come back on. She was slumped in her seat, leaning on Harry’s shoulder just as heavily as he was leaning on hers; his mouth was open, but his eyes were closed. Ron and Hermione were kneeling in front of him and Tracey was standing over Violet, eyes wide and panicked. Behind her, Violet could see Cassius, Ginny, and Professor Lupin watching.

“Harry?” Violet said, only her voice came out very weakly. She coughed and tried again, turning toward her brother and giving him a few sharp pats on the cheek. “Harry! Harry, are you alright?”

Harry’s eyes shot up with a gasp. He pushed himself up in his seat, looking blankly at the compartment around him. Violet pushed his glasses back into place and felt the cold sweat on his skin.

“What’s happened?” he said faintly. Immediately, he looked Violet over. “Where’s that — that thing? Are you okay? You were screaming.”

“No I wasn’t,” Violet said. She was feeling very shaky and weak all over. “I heard it too, but it wasn’t me. Who screamed?”

“No one screamed,” said Ron, more nervously still.

Violet and Harry looked around the bright compartment. Their friends all looked back at them, looking very pale; even Tracey and Hermione had a grayish pallor to  them.

“But we heard screaming —”

A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.

“Here,” he said, passing two particularly large chunks to Violet and Harry. “Eat it. It’ll help.”

They both took the chocolate, but neither of them ate it. Violet looked at it suspiciously before turning the same gaze onto Lupin.

“What was that thing?” Harry asked him.

“A dementor,” said Professor Lupin, who was now giving chocolate to everyone else. “One of the dementors of Azkaban.”

Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

“Eat,” he repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me . . .”

He strolled past Harry and Violet and disappeared into the corridor.

“Are you sure you two are okay?” said Hermione, watching them anxiously.

“I don’t understand . . . What happened?” said Violet, wiping sweat from her own face.

“Well — that thing — the dementor — stood there and looked around (I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its face) — and you — you —”

“I thought you were both having a fit or something,” said Ron, who still looked scared. “You went sort of rigid and slumped over and started twitching —”

“And that man stepped over you, and walked toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” said Tracey shakily, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t move, so he muttered something, and a silvery sort of thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away . . .”

“It was horrible,” Cassius muttered, his face far paler than usual. “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?”

“I felt weird,” said Ron, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. “Like I’d never be cheerful again . . .”

Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly as bad as Violet felt, gave a small sob. Violet struggled to get up from her seat and went over to put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“But did any of you — black out or anything?” said Harry awkwardly.

“No,” said Ron, looking anxiously between Harry and Violet. “Ginny was shaking like mad, though.”

Violet pulled Ginny closer. She didn’t understand. She still felt weak and shivery, as though she were recovering from a bad bout of flu; she also felt confusion, and the beginnings of shame. Why had she and Harry gone to pieces like that, when no one else had?

Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he entered, looking around, and said, with a small smile, “I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know . . .”

Violet and Harry looked at one another. She watched her brother take a small bite and, to her surprise, seemed to brighten. Harry nodded at her, and Violet took a little nibble off the corner. She immediately felt great warmth spread through her, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor Lupin. “Violet, Harry, are you alright?”

“How d’you know our names?” Violet asked, chest tightening with suspicion once more. Professor Lupin smiled at her, the corners of his tired eyes crinkling in the same kind way that Hagrid’s did. And, most strangely of all, in the back of Violet’s mind there was something familiar about those eyes . . . 

“Who else could you be?”

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and somewhere in the crowd Violet could hear a toad croaking loudly. It was freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down in icy shivers.

“Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry and Violet turned and saw the gigantic outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward for their traditional journey across the lake.

“Alrigh’, you lot?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of the crowd. They all waved at him, but had no chance to speak to him because of the mass of people around them shunting them away along the platform. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius followed the rest of the school along the platform and out onto a rough mud track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited the remaining students, each pulled by the strange, silent, skeletal horses. To Violet’s further annoyance and discomfort, Professor Lupin joined the three of them inside the carriage. Though he’d been nothing but kind and polite, there was still something about him that set Violet’s teeth on edge. She squeezed up next to Cassius to be as far from Lupin as possible and avoided his eyes as casually as she could. The door had barely closed behind him when the horses set off, bumping and swaying in procession.

The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Violet felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Tracey and Cass kept looking at her sideways, as though frightened she might collapse again. Professor Lupin stared politely out the window.

As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars, Violet saw two more towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf her again; she leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed her eyes until they had passed the gates. The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle; Tracey was leaning out of the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. At last, the skeletal horses came to a halt, carriages swaying, and the three of them hopped out.

As Violet stepped down, she heard a drawling, delighted voice sounded from across the way.

“You  _ fainted _ Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually _ fainted _ ?”

At the next carriage over, Violet could see her brother walled in by a familiar pale, rodent-faced boy; Draco Malfoy had been an adversary of both her and Harry since their very first day at Hogwarts and he’d been nothing but a nuisance for the entire two years since. It looked like he was planning to keep that streak alive for a third year, as well, judging by the way he and cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, were blocking Harry’s path up the stone stairs into the castle.

Violet’s shoes squelched loudly as she stomped across the muddy ground.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” she said, coming up behind him, and was pleased when he whirled around to face her with wide eyes. “Before I make you.  _ Again. _ ”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t you faint as well?” he said loudly. “Did the scary old dementor frighten you too? Or maybe you’re the one who frightened  _ it _ , with a mug like that.”

“Is there a problem?” said a mild voice. Professor Lupin had just gotten out of the carriage.

Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the dilapidated suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said, “Oh, no — er —  _ Professor _ ,” then he smirked at Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the castle.

“I’m sick of him,” Violet muttered to Tracey, who prodded her in the back to move her along. The two of them and Cassius joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors.

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; Violet followed the crowd toward it, but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Granger! I want to see you, please!”

Harry, Violet, and Hermione turned around, surprised. Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads of the crowd. She was a stern-looking witch who wore her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed with square spectacles. Violet and Harry looked at each other, then back at her.

“Which one?” Harry called back, pointing between himself and Violet.

“Both, if you please,” said Professor McGonagall, frowning. The twins fought their way over to her with feelings of foreboding: Professor McGonagall had a way of making people feel they must have done something wrong.

“There’s no need to look so worried — I just want a word in my office,” she told them. “Move along, the rest of you.”

Ron, Tracey, and Cass stared as Professor McGonagall ushered Harry, Violet, and Hermione away from the chattering crowd; they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and along a corridor.

Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned for the three of them to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you two were taken ill on the train.”

Before Harry or Violet could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came bustling in.

Violet felt herself going red in the face. It was bad enough that she’d passed out, or whatever had happened, without everyone making all this fuss. One look at Harry told him he was plainly feeling the same way. 

“I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything —”

“Oh, it’s you two, it is?” said Madam Pomfrey, ignoring this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous again?”

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor McGonagall.

They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly.

“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered, moving over to Violet and pressed a hand to her forehead. “They won’t be last who collapse. Yes, she’s all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate —”

“I’m not delicate!” said Violet crossly.

“Of course, you’re not,” said Madam Pomfrey absentmindedly, frowning at the bruise on Violet’s face. “What happened here?”

“I fell,” Violet said at once. The lie left a bitter taste in her mouth and she regretted it as soon as it came out, but Madam Pomfrey seemed to have accepted it; she’d already moved on to checking Violet’s pulse.

“What do they need?” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “Bed rest? Should they perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?”

“We’re  _ fine _ !” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of what Draco Malfoy would say if the two of them had to go to the hospital wing sent Violet’s face from flushed to crimson.

“Well, they should have some chocolate, at the very least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to peer into Violet’s eyes.

“We’ve already had some,” said Violet, jerking backwards and blinking. “Professor Lupin gave us some. He gave it to all of us.”

“Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, dears?” Professor McGonagall said sharply.

“ _ Yes _ ,” said Harry and Violet together.

“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together.”

Violet and Harry went back into the corridor with Madam Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to herself. They had to wait only a few minutes; then Hermione emerged looking very happy about something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the three of them made their way back down the marble staircase to the Great Hall.

It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long House tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair. Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and a three-legged stool out of the hall.

“Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the Sorting.”

New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by trying on the Sorting Hat, which shouted out the House they were best suited to (Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin). Professor McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and after a brief squeeze of each other’s hands for goodbye, Harry and Violet set off in opposite directions, as quietly as possible, toward their respective tables. Harry and Hermione were in Gryffindor, but Violet had been Sorted into Slytherin. People looked around at them all as they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of them even pointed. Had the story of their collapsing in front of the dementor traveled that fast?

Violet sat down in between Tracey and Cassius, who had saved her a seat.

“What was that all about?” Cass muttered to Violet.

Violet started to explain in a whisper, but at that moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and she broke off.

Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave off an impression of great energy. He had several feet of long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn’t why Violet respected him. You couldn’t help trusting Albus Dumbledore, and as Violet watched him beaming around at the students, she felt really calm for the first time since the dementor had entered the train compartment.

“Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast . . .”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here in Ministry of Magic business.”

He paused, and Violet remembered what Mr. Weasley had said about Dumbledore not being happy with the dementors guarding the school.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not fooled by tricks of disguises — or even items that might render their owners invisible or intangible,” he added blandly, and Violet and Tracey glanced at each other. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs around of the dementors,” he said.

Violet looked over to the Gryffindor table where Percy, seated a ways down from Harry, had his chest puffed out and was looking around impressively. Dumbledore paused again; he looked very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or made a sound.

“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.

“First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Only those who had been in the compartment on the train with Professor Lupin clapped hair, Violet grudgingly among them. Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes.

Violet’s eyes slid down the table on a whim, landing on Professor Snape, the Potions master and head of Slytherin House. He was staring along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was common knowledge that Professor Snape wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, but Violet was startled at the expression twisting his thin, pale face. It was beyond anger; it was loathing. Did he know Professor Lupin from outside of school? Did he know something  _ about _ him?

It wasn’t until then she remembered that although the Sneakoscope had been in her pocket since Ron gave it to her, it hadn’t made moved or made a single sound the whole carriage ride with Professor Lupin.

“As to our second appointment,” Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who had agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

Violet, Tracey, and Cassius stared at one another, stunned. Then they joined in with the applause, which was particularly tumultuous across the hall at the Gryffindor table. Violet leaned forward to see Hagrid, who was ruby-red in the face and staring down at his enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of his black beard.

“We should’ve known!” Tracey squealed, clapping furiously. “Who else would have assigned us a biting book?”

As the clapping finally died down, and as Professor Dumbledore started speaking again, Violet saw that Hagrid was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth.

“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!”

It was a delicious feast; the hall echoes with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Violet, however, was eager for it to finish so that she could talk to Hagrid. She knew how much being made a teacher would mean to him. Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime he had not committed. It had Harry who had cleared Hagrid’s name last year.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.

“Congratulations, Hagrid!” Violet cried as she reached the teachers’ table, just in time to be joined by Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“All down ter you lot,” said Hagrid, wiping his shining face on his napkin as he looked down at them. “Can’ believe it . . . great man, Dumbledore . . . came straight down ter me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he’d had enough . . . It’s what I always wanted . . .”

Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.

Violet joined Tracey and Cassius and the rest of the Slytherins streaming down the winding staircase off of the entrance hall and, very tired now, through several winding corridors, down more and more stairs, to the hidden entrance to the Slytherin Dungeons. A black stone wall greeted them, flanked by two innocuously burning torches.

“Coming through, pardon me,” said an unfamiliar female voice, and a tall, very thin Black girl with short-cropped hair pushed to the front of the crowd. Violet recognized her as an older student she’d seen around the common room, and now saw the shiny prefect badge pinned to the front of her robes. She remembered, suddenly and sadly, that Gemma Farley had graduated at the end of last year.

“I’m Zoe Acrington, I’ll be one of your prefects this year. The new password to our common room is ‘Auctoritas’!”

The wall behind her melted away, revealing a solid wooden door beneath. It opened soundlessly, and the whole House streamed into through the doorway and across the common room. The girls and boys divided toward their separate staircases. Violet jogged down the steps with no thought in her head except how glad she was to be back. They reached their familiar, long and low dormitory with its five four-poster beds, and Violet, looking around, felt she was home at last.


	6. Numerology and Grim-matica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

When Violet and Tracey entered the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining a large group of younger students with a very funny story. As they settled into seats further down the table, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.

“Ignore him,” said Tracey, who was right behind Violet. “Just ignore the prat, don’t give him the satisfaction . . .”

“Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a girl in Violet and Tracey’s year. “Potter! The dementors are coming, Potter!  _ Woooooooo _ !”

Violet kept her eyes resolutely forward and dug into her muesli. A few moments later, Cassius flopped down beside her and handed Violet a sheet of paper.

“New third-year course schedules,” said Cass, passing one to Tracey as well. “What’s up with you, Vi?”

“Malfoy,” said Tracey, twitching her head in the direction of the crowd down the table. Cass looked over in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with terror again.

“D’you want me to shut him up for you?” he asked calmly, raising an eyebrow at Violet. “I bet I could, easily. From what I heard, he about pissed himself when the dementors were down at his end of the train.”

“Oh, that’s rich!” said Tracey. “And here he is, acting like Violet’s somehow at fault for getting sick from those horrible things. Even  _ Dumbledore _ isn’t happy to have them around, so I heard. Azkaban must a  _ horrible _ place.”

“Well, it’s a prison,” Violet said, tearing a bread roll in half. “I reckon it  _ should _ be terrible.”

Beside her, Cassius coughed.

“What’s on your schedules for today?” he asked loudly, leaning over Violet’s shoulder. Surprised at the sudden change of subject, she nonetheless held it up to show him her courses.

“I start Arithmancy this morning,” said Violet. “I’ve been reading my mother’s copy of  _ Numerology and Grammatica _ and she left loads of notes in the pages, so hopefully I’ll have a bit of a head start in class.”

“I’ve never had Professor Vector,” said Cass, “but I’ve heard she’s very strict. Best not let her see all the scribbles in your book or she might think you’ve been cheating.”

“Aw, we don’t have anything together until later,” Tracey moaned, looking at Violet’s schedule as well. She held up her own for comparison. “I’ve got Muggle Studies this morning, then we’ve got Charms, and after lunch we get to start Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid! Oh, I’m so excited! He looked so happy at the feast, didn’t he? I’ll bet he’s planned something brilliant for our first lesson!”

“Hang on,” said Cassius, squinting at Tracey’s schedule, “why in Merlin’s name are  _ you _ taking Muggle studies? You’re Muggle-born — your  _ whole _ family are Muggles! You’ll know more about them than anyone else in the class.”

“Well that’s the point, isn’t it?” said Tracey, cheeks darkening as she snatched her schedule away from view. “Maybe I wanted to be at the top of a class for a change.”

“But you’re brilliant!” Violet blurted. “You do really well in Potions, and you got the highest marks in Herbology last year, didn’t you?”

Tracey’s blush deepened, but she scrunched up her face as well.

“Theodore Nott beat me by four points,” she said bitterly. “I  _ was _ ahead, but — after you got Petrified, I was so worried all the time and I wasn’t sleeping, and Dumbledore cancelled all our exams last year, remember, so our grades were sorted by how well we’d done in class until then and, well . . . I wasn’t doing as well as I could’ve been.”

“Oh,” said Violet. A knot of guilt twisted itself into existence in her stomach. She’d missed the last two months of the previous school year, during her immobile stint in the hospital wing. They hadn’t really talked about it, but of  _ course _ Tracey would have been worried and upset about being gone — and all because she’d panicked and gotten careless.

“It’s not your fault!” said Tracey quickly, as though she could read Violet’s fears on her face. “No, Vi — there wasn’t anything you could do, it was my fault.” Tracey grabbed hold of Violet’s hand and linked their fingers together, grinning broadly. “But it’s a new year, isn’t it? Plenty of time to catch up and prove myself, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

When Tracey smiled, it was very difficult not to smile back at her. Violet found herself doing just that, grinning around the bread roll in her mouth and squeezing Tracey’s hand beneath the table. Violet realized then just how terribly she’d missed her friends.

“You’d better be off, Violet,” said Cassius from her other side. Violet turned to him and blinked.

“Why?”

He nodded at her course schedule.

“Arithmancy’s on the seventh floor. It’ll take you ten minutes to get there, and I really don’t suggest being late. First impressions and all.”

“Oh.” Violet looked at the large hunk of roll still in her hand, shrugged, and shoved the lot of it into her mouth. She gave Cass and Tracey a thumbs up as she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. She was stopped, almost at once, by the sight of Hagrid striding into the Great Hall. he was wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one enormous hand. Violet chewed her bread hurriedly and jogged over to him.

“Hagrid!” she called, making him turn. “Hagrid, good morning!”

“Mornin’ ter you as well, Violet,” said Hagrid, smiling broadly beneath his great black beard. “Where’re you off ter in such a hurry? Breakfast’s not half over.”

“Arithmancy,” said Violet. “Cassius said it’s on the seventh floor and I shouldn’t be late.”

“Now there’s a ruddy complicated subject,” Hagrid said, frowning slightly. “Not tha’ you’ll have any trouble with it, mind! Me, I never had a head fer numbers an’ all tha’.”

“Maybe I can teach you!” said Violet brightly. “When you’re not busy teaching me, I mean. Hagrid, I’m so happy for you!”

Hagrid’s smile returned once more.

“Can’ hardly believe it meself,” he said, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially. “ Bin up since five gettin’ everythin’ ready . . . Me, a teacher . . . hones’ly . . .”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Violet told him firmly. “I’ll be in your first class, right after lunch. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned!”

Hagrid flushed bright red again and gave Violet several, heavy pats on the head that left her slightly dizzy as she staggered from the Great Hall and started up the grand marble staircase.

Hogwarts castle wasn’t truly as massive as it had once seemed to Violet. That did not, however, mean that it was small. With eight floors, half a dozen towers, and a sprawling network of dungeons and subterranean caverns — not even including the grounds — there was still plenty of castle to get lost in, and  _ lost _ was exactly how Violet was starting to feel. She’d gotten turned around somewhere along the fifth floor corridor and was sure she’d passed the same suit of armor three times, but couldn’t seem to find her way back to the main staircase. Panic was just beginning to set in when she took a gamble, made a left turn that she hadn’t taken before, and ran headfirst into a familiar face.

“Oh!” said Hermione, stumbling backward. “Sorry, I didn’t see you — what are you doing here?”

“Trying to get to class,” Violet said, slightly breathless from all the walking. “I can’t find the way to Arithmancy.”

Hermione’s face lit up at once.

“I’m starting Arithmancy, too! I asked one of the Ravenclaw prefects for directions and they actually told me about a shortcut — come on, we can find it together.”

With Hermione’s help, Violet was finally saved from her own poor sense of direction and led back to the grand staircase. Hermione’s shortcut led them off through a very narrow side corridor, up a hidden set of spiral stairs, and out from behind a grand statue of a bearded man wielding a broken plank of wood like an axe. They heard voices ahead and followed them around the corridor to find a small group of students gathered outside of a narrow, closed wooden door.

“I think this is it,” Hermione muttered as they approached. In the crowd, Violet recognized Blaise Zabini from her own House, as well as a familiar looking Gryffindor boy that Hermione exchanged a friendly nod with. Violet stuck close to Hermione out of familiarity, and the two girls joined their fellows in waiting to enter the classroom.

From behind the wooden door, a clock chimed loudly. As soon as the chime faded, there was a sharp click and the door swung open on its own.

“Enter,” called a voice from within the shadowy room. With many glances between one another, the students slowly filtered inside. Violet was the last to step inside, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the low lighting.

It was the most well organized classrooms Violet had ever seen. Ten single desks were arranged in two precise rows facing the front of the room, the entire wall of which was covered in a polished, spotless blackboard. There wasn’t a single chalk mark in sight, nor was there a teacher’s desk, as Violet expected. There was a large open gap between the blackboard and the first row of desks that made the room appear larger than it actually was. The back of the room, however, seemed to be a small library in its own right. A half dozen thin wooden shelves were arranged on either side of a great wooden desk, bare of any clutter, and supporting the only source of light in the entire room. A dark shape moved behind the desk, and Professor Vector hoved into view.

She was a tall, middle-aged witch whose long brown hair was heavily streaked with grey, and whose eyes were so pale in colour that they appeared almost sightless. As she stood, Violet could just make out a set of dark red robes and a large, heavy-looking black pendant hanging around her neck.

“Good morning, students,” said Professor Vector, emerging from behind the desk and striding slowly toward the front of the room. “I welcome you to the first Arithmancy lesson of the new school year. Before you sit I must ask, please, that you join me in the front of the room so that we may determine where it is best for you to be placed.”

Professor Vector had a low, throaty sort of voice and more than a hint of an accent, though Violet couldn’t place it exactly. She and the rest of the class looked around at each other, unsure of what that meant, and all of them jumped in unison as Professor Vector loudly clapped her hands together.

“Quickly, please,” she said sternly. “We have much to begin learning today, and so little time to learn it. Up front, all of you.”

In an orderly sort of rush they all filed into the open space at the front of the classroom, where Professor Vector took a few moments to arrange them into a loose semi-circle. Blaise, who was the tallest in the class, was put in the middle and all the rest of them were fanned out by height on either side of him. Then, starting from the left, Professor Sinestra went down the line and asked everyone to tell them their full names, first, middle, and last. There was a lot of stammering and blushing and quiet muttering — Hermione Jean Granger was the only one to speak loudly and clearly, and Dean Elliot Thomas was so quiet Violet almost couldn’t hear him, even with how close she was standing.

“Full name,” said Professor Sinestra, standing in front of Violet as she had done in front of all the others.

“Violet Potter.”

Professor Vector raised a single thick eyebrow.

“ _ Full _ name, please.”

“I —” Violet swallowed. “I don’t know it. I think I have a middle name, but I don’t, er, know what it is.”

Mutters ran down the line, a few titters mixed in between. Violet felt her face go hot. Professor Vector gaze did not waver, however.

“It will be difficult to place you without a full name,” she said slowly, her eyes gleaming like twin pale moons. “But we will find a way, Violet Potter.”

And then she moved on to the girl on Violet’s right, until she made it all the way down the end of the line. Then Professor Vector circled back around to stand in front of them all and, one by one, assigned them all a number from zero to nine. Violet was given the number zero, and told to sit in the corresponding desk — each desk had a silver number stamped on the front, and Violet’s was in the first row at the left. Hermione, who was given number four, was placed all the way at the other end.

Professor Vector strode up to the massive blackboard and, gesturing in the air with her wand, wrote the same series of numbers, zero through nine, in large numbers all across the length of the board.

“Numbers,” she said in a loud, ringing voice, “are the only words that transcend language. They are not limited by the physical or cultural borders of Man, they do not possess any double meanings or hidden connotations. They are purely what they are. And so it is to  _ numbers _ . . .”

She finished the number nine with a flourish and turned sharply to face the group of wide-eyed students in front of her.

“. . . That we must look to for  _ answers _ . Each of you should own a copy of  _ Numerology and Grammatica. _ Produce it now, and look to chapter one. Before you can begin to divine the power of numbers you must first understand their meaning. You will read silently until otherwise instructed. Begin.”

The classroom was filled with the sudden flurry of many people rummaging through their bags at once, all frantic to get to the right page faster than their neighbors to avoid being the last one ready. Violet quietly cracked open her mother’s copy of  _ Numerology and Grammatica _ and was immediately calmed by the sight of the foreign yet so familiar handwriting — she’d been practicing it over the summer and had nearly mastered it, though the particular way her mother joined up letters like ‘e’ and ‘a’ with her ‘r’s were still proving tricky.

The first chapter of the book was fairly scarce on notations, which meant that Violet had no choice but to focus on the subject material. The author had a crisp, blunt way of writing that while very clear to understand, was also incredibly boring. 

On the fourth page, next to a simple chart of numbers and their corresponding letters (again one through nine; Violet noticed with a sinking feeling that there was no ‘zero’ listed), Violet found her eyes wandering to one of her mother’s first notations in the book. Two sets of lines of numbers were calculated together, though no letters were written above them to help her decipher:

 

3+9+3+7 5+4+1+5+1

38 = 11 = 2

 

1+5+4+5+9+3+1 1+5+1+7+5

47 = 11 = 2

 

Beneath the lines of numbers was another small scribble, clearly intended for someone else to read:

 

_ Look! We’re both 2’s! _

 

Violet looked hastily between the scrawl and the chart of numbers and letters, trying to spell out the two names listed. The first she gathered, by association, to be her mother’s:  _ Lily Evans _ .

But who was the second name? And what did it mean to be a 2?

“Is everyone finished with the reading?” said Professor Vector’s voice, cutting through the silent room and making Violet jolt in her seat. She looked up and found that while she’d been focused on her book, the blackboard had been cleaned again, leaving it just as spotless as it was when they walked in.

“Today’s lesson will now come to a close,” Professor Sinestra said, looking distantly over their heads. “I have learned much about this new class today, and I expect you all to have learned as much by the time we next meet. Your homework —”

There were several low groans across the room. Professor Vector closed her mouth and waited for absolute silence again before continuing.

“— is to divine the meaning of your own names. You will use the chart you have studied today, and you will return to me with greater knowledge of yourself and those around you. Pack up now, and leave quietly.”

Again came the flurry of rummaging through packs, stuffing books away among quills and rolls of parchment. The scraping of chairs on the wooden floor was like a peal of thunder compared to the last hour of silence, and despite Professor Vector’s order for silence there was plenty of muttering all around. Violet, who was one of the first out of the room, stood by the door and waited for Hermione. Blaise Zabini passed by her, and so did Dean Thomas and the rest of the little collection of students from various Houses — but Hermione wasn’t amongst them. Violet did a double take, counting the heads of everyone as they walked away, searching for a head of bushy brown hair in the crowd. She tried to peek back inside the classroom, in case Hermione had hung back to ask Professor Vector any questions, but she very narrowly avoided getting hit in the nose by the wooden door as it swung shut and locked with a definite click.

In the end, Violet was forced to make the long trek back downstairs by herself. It took her so long to find her way back that, as early as she had left Arithmancy, she had to run down the last corridor in order to make it to Charms in time. Violet was panting and red in the face as she burst into Professor Flitwick’s classroom — Flitwick was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen, but the class was nearly full up. If not for Tracey waving at her from the second row Violet might not have been able to find a seat at all.

“What happened to you?” Tracey whispered as Violet collapsed into the seat beside her.

“Stairs,” Violet huffed, digging for her copy of  _ Standard Book of Spells, Year 3 _ . “Lots and lots of stairs.”

“How was Arithmancy?”

“Er, weird? Professor Vector’s really intense — I’ll tell you about it at lunch, yeah?”

“Oh, my!” squeaked a high pitched voice from the front of the room; Professor Flitwick had appeared and climbed atop the stack of books behind his desk, looking out at all of them with a dramatic, exaggerated look of surprise on his little face. “It appears that someone has left the classroom door open. We can’t have that, now, can we? If only there was some way for me to close it from where I’m standing without having to move.”

“Potter did it!” called Pansy Parkinson loudly, pointing across the room at where Violet was trying and failing to sink below her desk in shame. Professor Flitwick chuckled.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson, for naming the dastardly culprit. I suppose it should be Miss Potter, then, to close the door for us!”

Face flushed bright red, Violet muttered an apology and started to rise from her seat. She stopped, however, when Flitwick began to tut.

“Oh, no, it’s not necessary for you to get up, Potter,” he said, smiling at her. “Simply close the door from where you are, if you would.”

Violet blinked at him.

“Sir?” she said uncertainly.

“Can’t you think of a way?” said Professor Flitwick, his smile widening encouragingly. “Perhaps a way to reach things from a distance, and pull them toward you?”

He raised his hand and swirled it over his head, like casting a lasso. Something in Violet’s head clicked.

“Oh! Oh, right — er —”

Violet produced her wand from the pocket of her robes, waved it over her head much the way Flitwick had mimed, and flicked it in the direction of the door. Gasps broke out as a bright, sparkling red rope of magic shot from the tip of Violet’s wand all the way across the room. It lashed itself around the doorknob, Violet gave it a solid yank, and the door was pulled and slammed shut with a loud bang.

Violet lowered her wand and turned back to Professor Flitwick, smiling apprehensively. He began to clap.

“Well done, Potter, well done  _ indeed _ ! Five points to Slytherin!” He stopped clapping abruptly, throwing out both arms to catch his balance as the books beneath him began to totter. After a moment he straightened back up and made a small show of readjusting his glasses. “Although, perhaps next time you might speak the incantation aloud during a demonstration, for the benefit of your fellow students. We don’t typically expect non-verbal spells until sixth year, my dear.”

Violet, who hadn’t even realized she didn’t speak the spell out loud, went red once more and quickly sat down. She looked across the room and found Pansy’s furious eyes on her. Everyone else in the room seemed to be looking at her as well; as being looked at was Violet’s least favourite thing in the world, she immediately regretted being given the chance to show off.

“Now!” started Professor Flitwick, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “As you have all just seen, today we will be starting to learn a very useful little spell that is mostly commonly known as the ‘Seize and Pull’ Charm. It can be used to close doors, as we have just seen, or to quickly draw objects to you from across a room. One must always be careful, however, not to try and pull something which is too solidly placed to move, lest the thing flying across the room might be  _ you _ .”

As with all of Professor Flitwick’s lessons, this one started with a flashy demonstration and then dragged to a crawl as they were made to read up on the spell, its inventor, and its most practical applications.

When the Charms class had finished, Violet and Tracey practically bounded from the room in excitement; thanks to last year’s lessons from Cassius, the two of them were already well versed in casting  _ Carpe Retractum _ and had a definite edge over their classmates. The girls entered the Great Hall beaming and laughing —

But the first thing Violet saw across the room was Ron’s stricken face, and the hunched, tense shoulders of her brother at the Gryffindor table.

“I’ll catch up,” she muttered to Tracey and set off across the room.

“. . . don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron was saying angrily as Violet approached. “Grims scare the living daylights out of most wizards!”

“There you are, then,” retorted Hermione, her tone superior. “They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim’s not an omen, it’s the cause of death! And Harry’s still with us because he’s not stupid enough to see one and think, right, well, I’d better kick the bucket then!”

“What’s going on?” Violet asked in alarm, nudging Ron aside so that she could sit next to her brother. Harry started to speak, but Hermione huffed dramatically and talked over him.

“Harry got his fortune told by some soggy leaves in Divination today,” said Hermione loudly, “and now everyone — including  _ Ronald _ — thinks he’s going to die. Even Professor McGonagall said it was rubbish, Harry, you can’t  _ really _ believe —”

“I don’t believe anything, alright?” Harry said, clearly trying to disappear into the collar of his robes. “Vi, it’s nothing to worry about. Professor Trelawny says she saw a dog in my tea leaves that’s supposed to be some sort of omen of death.”

“But we  _ did _ see a dog,” said Violet, her stomach clenching suddenly. “The great black thing when we were leaving the Dursleys —”

“ _ See _ ?” said Ron; he was pointing at Violet with his fork, but his wild eyes were fixed on Hermione. “Violet says she saw it, too! It had to be a Grim!”

“Probably a stray,” said Hermione calmly. Ron threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“So what’s the Grim then?” Violet asked Harry. “Is that the name of the dog?”

Harry shrugged unhelpfully.

“I s’pose. That’s what Professor Trelawny kept calling it.”

“But did she say anything else?” Violet pressed. Across the table, Hermione snorted.

“Only that it meant Harry was going to die horribly, of course,” she said. “Honestly, if you two really  _ did _ see a dog, you saw it weeks ago — if seeing it kills you, shouldn’t you have already dropped dead by now?”

“You’re just put off because Trelawny said you don’t have the right aura!” said Ron hotly. “You just don’t like being bad at something for a change!”

He had clearly touched a nerve. Hermione slammed her book down on the table so hard that bits of meat and carrot flew everywhere.

“If being good at Divination means I have to pretend to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I’m not sure I’ll be studying it for much longer! That lesson was absolute rubbish compared with my Arithmancy class.”

She snatched up her back and stalked away.

Violet frowned after her.

“Honestly I thought Arithmancy was a bit rubbish, too,” she said, rising from the table as well. Violet ruffled Harry’s hair for good measure and wandered back over to the Slytherin table to eat.

 

Violet was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch. Yesterday’s rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale grey, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical Creatures class.

Cassius had really gotten Tracey hyped up for the subject, promising loads of funny little creatures and interesting lessons ahead; she was practically bouncing along beside Violet as they went down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Last year Violet would have been chomping at the bit to get up close and personal with a magical monster or two — except that now she  _ had _ been up close and personal with one of the most terrifying monsters of all, a Basilisk, and the experience had left her feeling far more nervous than excited.

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut. He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the boarhound at his heels, and looked impatient to start. He did, however, wave back at something over Violet’s head. She turned and was surprised to see the whole class of Gryffindors heading down to join them. Harry walked awkwardly between Ron and Hermione, who were evidently not speaking to one another.

“C’mon, now, get a move on!” Hagrid called as the two Houses approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!”

For one nasty moment, Violet thought Hagrid was going to lead them into the forest; the last time Violet had set foot inside she’d been traumatized by the sight of a dead unicorn and attacked by the thing that killed it, which turned out to be Lord Voldemort himself. She was not at all keen to go back. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge of the trees, and five minutes later, they found themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was nothing in there.

“Everyone gather ’round the fence here!” he called. “Tha’s it — make sure yeh can see — now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books —”

“How?” said the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.

“Eh?” said Hagrid.

“How do we open the books?” Malfoy repeated. He took out his copy of  _ The Monster Book of Monsters _ , which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other people took theirs out too; some, like Harry, had belted their book shut; others had crammed them inside tight bags or clamped them together with binder clips.

“Hasn’ — hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their books?” said Hagrid, looking crestfallen.

The class all shook their heads.

“Yeh’ve got ter  _ stroke _ ‘em,” said Hagrid, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look —”

He took Violet’s copy and ripped off the brown wrapping paper that still clung to it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a giant forefinger down its spine, and the book shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.

“Oh, how silly we’ve all been!” Malfoy sneered. “We should have  _ stroked _ them! Why didn’t we guess!”

“I — I thought they were funny,” Hagrid said uncertainly to Violet.

“Oh, tremendously funny!” cried Malfoy. “Really witty, giving us books that —”

Malfoy caught sight of the warning look on Violet’s face and shut up. He glared fiercely back at her, but she was pleased that he’d quieted down on his own. Violet wanted Hagrid’s first lesson to be a success, and she didn’t fancy earning herself a detention to do it.

“Righ’ then,” said Hagrid, who seemed to have lost his thread, “so — so yeh’ve got yer books an’ — an’ — now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go an’ get ‘em. Hang on . . .”

He strode away from them into the forest and out of sight.

“God, this place is going to the dogs,” said Malfoy loudly. “That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a fit when I tell him —”

“Your father’s not a school governor anymore,” Violet said, even more loudly. “You can whine to him all you like, Malfoy, but I don’t see what good it can do you.”

A chorus of ‘ _ ooohs _ ’ broke out among both Houses. Malfoy’s cheeks went pink, but his face was twisted with fury.

“Better be careful, Potter, speaking to me like that. I might just have to put a word in with the dementors about where you sleep —”

“Ooooooh!” squealed a dark-skinned Gryffindor girl, pointing toward the opposite side of the paddock. Just in time as well, as Harry and Tracey had both taken two steps toward Malfoy.

Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most fascinating creatures Violet had ever seen. They had the bodies, hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs, wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles, with cruel, steel-coloured beaks and large, brilliantly orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a thick leather collar around its neck, which was attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.

“Gee up, there!” he roared, shaking the chains and urging the creatures toward the fence where the class stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at them. “Beau’iful, aren’ they?”

Violet could see exactly what Hagrid meant. Even the shock she felt at first seeing them couldn’t outshine the hippogriff’s gleaming coats, changing smoothly from feather to hair, each of them a different color: stormy grey, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and inky black.

“So,” said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and beaming around, “if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer —”

Violet and Tracey stepped forward at once. After a moment, Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached more cautiously.

“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ hippogriffs is, they’re proud,” said Hagrid. Easily offended, hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ‘cause it might be the last thing yeh do.”

Violet could heard muttering behind her and had a sick, sneaking suspicion that it was Malfoy, plotting with Crabbe and Goyle about how best to disrupt the lesson.

“Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs’ move,” Hagrid continued. “It’s polite, see? Yeh walk toward him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow back, then get away from him sharpish, ‘cause those talon hurt.

“Right — who wants ter go first?”

Most of the class backed farther away in answer. Even Violet and Tracey, who very much wanted to go first, had misgivings. The hippogriffs were tossing their fierce heads and flexing their powerful wings; they didn’t see to like being tethered like this.

“No one?” said Hagrid, with a pleading look.

Violet heard Tracey take a deep breath, clearly ready to take one for the team, and quickly grabbed hold of her hand. But it wasn’t Tracey she should have worried about.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry.

There was an intake of breath from behind him, and two Gryffindor girls whispered, “Oooh, no, Harry, remember your tea leaves!”

Harry ignored them, and ignored Violet’s blatant attempts at eye contact with him. He climbed over the paddock fence.

“Good man, Harry!” roared Hagrid. “Right then — let’s see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.”

He untied one of the chains, pulled the grey hippogriff away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather collar. Violet, along with the rest of the class on the other side of the paddock, was holding her breath.

“Easy now, Harry,” said Hagrid quietly. “Yeh’ve got eye contact, now try not ter blink . . . Hippogriffs don’ trust yeh if yeh blink too much . . .”

Harry remained frozen in place, staring up at Buckbeak. Violet held tight to Tracey’s hand as Buckbeak turned his great, sharp head and stared at Harry with one fierce orange eye.

“Tha’s it,” said Hagrid. “Tha’s it, Harry . . . now, bow . . .”

Harry did as he was told, though his form left something to be desired. He gave a short bow and then looked back up.

The hippogriff continued to stare haughtily at him. It didn’t move.

“Ah,” said Hagrid, sounding worried. “Right — back away, now, Harry, easy does it —”

But then, to Violet’s enormous surprise, Buckbeak suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into what was an unmistakable bow.

“Well done, Harry!” said Hagrid, ecstatic. “Right — yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!”

Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and reached out toward it. He patted the beak several times and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as though enjoying it.

The class broke into applause. Violet felt as though she might faint.

“Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid. “I reckon he migh’ let yeh ride him!”

“What?” said Harry, stepping back in panic, but far too late. Hagrid strode toward him and stuck two massive hands beneath Harry’s armpits, lifting him as easily as Violet lifted Crookshanks. Harry’s legs dangled uselessly as Hagrid hefted him onto the hippogriff’s back. 

“Mind yeh don’ pull any of his feathers out,” said Hagrid. “He won’ like that . . .”

Buckbeak stood up. Everywhere Violet could see was feathers, and Harry didn’t look as though he had the first idea of where to hold on, but there was no time for that.

“Go on, then!” roared Hagrid, slapping the hippogriff’s hindquarters.

Without warning, twelve foot wings flapped open on either side of Harry; Violet screamed as the bird flapped and kicked off, soaring upward with her brother barely clinging to its back. She could hear laughter behind her and knew it was Malfoy. Whether he was making fun of her fear or Harry’s panic she didn’t know, and did not care. The only thing that mattered was Harry not falling to his death.

She watched intently as Buckbeak flew Harry once around the paddock and then headed back to the ground. The landing, which was graceful for the hippogriff, looked very bumpy and uncomfortable for Harry, who slid to the ground as soon as he was able.

“Good work, Harry!” roared Hagrid as everyone except Malfoy and his crowd cheered. “Okay, who else wants a go?”

Emboldened by Harry’s success, Violet and Tracey led the charge as the rest of the class climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were bowing nervously all over the paddock. Neville ran repeatedly backward from him, which didn’t seem to want to bed its knees. Violet and Tracey took turns bowing to the bronze, who seemed slightly more agreeable than the grey that Harry had ridden. That hippogriff, Buckbeak, had unfortunately gone to Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. It had bowed to Malfoy, who was now patting his beak, looking disdainful.

“This is very easy,” Malfoy drawled, loud enough to Harry and likely Hagrid to hear him. “I knew it must have been, if Potter could do it . . . I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you?” he said to the hippogriff. “Are you, you great ugly brute?”

It happened in a flash; Buckbeak reared back and swiped at Malfoy with his steely talons, and suddenly Malfoy was on the ground screaming in pain. Buckbeak reared back once more, ready to make a second strike with his sharp, vicious beak —

Violet’s arm flew out in a panic, and Buckbeak let out a screech of outrage as his beak collided with nothing but air — a solid foot from where Malfoy lay, screaming. An instant later and Hagrid was there, wresting the hippogriff back into his collar as he strained to get at Malfoy, who lay in the grass, blood blossoming over his robes.

“I’m dying!” Malfoy yelled as the class panicked. “I’m dying, look at me! It’s killed me!”

“Yer not dyin’!” said Hagrid, who had gone very white. “Someone help me — gotta get him outta here —”

Hermione ran to hold open the gate as Hagrid lifted Malfoy easily. As they passed, Violet saw there was a long, deep gash on Malfoy’s arm; blood splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the slope toward the castle.

Very shaken, the Care of Magical Creatures class followed at a walk. Malfoy’s posse were all shouting about Hagrid.

“They should fire him straight away!” said Pansy Parkinson, who was in tears.

“It was Malfoy’s fault!” snapped Dean Thomas. Crabbe and Goyle flexed their muscles threateningly, but Dean didn’t look even mildly cowed by them. 

They all climbed the stone steps into the deserted entrance hall.

“I’m going to see if he’s okay!” said Pansy, and they all watched her up the marble staircase. The Gryffindors, still muttering about Malfoy, headed up as well in the direction of their tower common room; Violet, Tracey, and the rest of the Slytherins proceeded downstairs to the dungeons.

“He’s such an idiot!” Tracey said, taking the steps two by two and forcing Violet to keep up with her. “He  _ knew _ not to insult the hippogriffs, and he did it anyway just to mess things up for Hagrid’s first class. You should’ve let the bloody bird have at him, Vi.”

“Me?” said Violet. “What did I have to do with it?”

“I was standing right there, I saw you put up a barrier or — or whatever it was you did. Buckbeak couldn’t get to Malfoy, anyways. Shame.”

“I didn’t  _ mean _ to do anything,” Violet muttered as they entered the common room.

“I know, Violet — you never do.”

Violet didn’t know quite how to respond to that, so she didn’t.

 

With no classes for the rest of the day and nothing to do until dinnertime, Violet holed herself up in the girl’s dormitory and decided to get a head start on her homework.

Her Arithmancy homework was quite simple; all Violet had to do was figure out which numbers corresponded to the letters of her name, add them all together, then reduce them down to a single digit. After a bit of confusion, and triple checking her math, Violet came up with the number 6. According to  _ Numerology and Grammatica _ , that meant she was “friendly, loyal, and reliable; quick to adapt; unsuccessful in business; and prone to complacency.”

There were other numbers that she could reduce her name down to, but of course she needed her middle name to do it properly. With no idea how to find out what her middle name was, or indeed if she even  _ had _ one — there was no way she could write home to Aunt Petunia and ask for it — Violet could do nothing more but hope that Professor Vector wouldn’t take points away from her for not being able to do it completely.

While wistfully looking over the number charts again, Violet found her eyes drawn back to the margins of the book where her mother had once calculated the numbers of her own name, and someone else’s, excited to show them that they were the same.

It was much harder to translate numbers into letters than it was the other way around; there were multiple letters that could correspond to the same number, and whoever this person was, their name was twelve letters long. 

While it made for an intriguing puzzle, figuring out the name of her mother’s childhood friend wasn’t exactly the most pressing thing on Violet’s mind.

Something had been bothering her ever since that afternoon, though with everything going on she’d had little time to dwell on it — what Harry, Ron, and Hermione had said about their first Divination class had jogged Violet’s memory back to not only the great black dog on Magnolia Crescent, but the same black dog that had stared back at them from the table in Flourish and Blotts. Violet hadn’t touched her copy of  _ Death Omens: What To Do When You Know The Worst is Coming _ since packing it up at the Leaky Cauldron — pulling it out now, she was struck by just how frightening the image on the cover was. The dark mass of a hulking, spectral black dog with two glowing pinpricks of white light in place of eyes, staring back out at her from the misty cover. Though most magical pictures in the magical world were able to move around freely in their frames, the dog didn’t appear to shift at all as Violet looked at it. Giving up, she flipped through to the table of contents untils she found what she was looking for.

The book was split into sections by the apparent severity certain omens, ranging from ‘Minor’ to ‘Inevitable.’ Violet was not encouraged to find  _ Grim, the _ categorized under ‘Grave.’

 

_ The Grim is an iconic omen of death, reputed to bring about the demise of the person who encounters it. Taking the shape of a large, black, spectral dog, the Grim is perhaps the most well-known of omens and has earned infamy throughout the wizarding world. It it considered among Seers as one of the worst, if not the worst, omen that one can encounter, for it is well documented that the person who bears witness to the Grim will soon surely face their demise. _

 

A shiver ran down Violet’s spine.  _ That _ certainly wasn’t very encouraging, and matched with what Ron had been yelling about at lunch time. But could it really be true? Hermione didn’t seem to believe it, and she’d said that Professor McGonagall didn’t put much stock into omens or Divination, either. Normally Violet would respect McGonagall’s judgement on any subject . . .

But she had seen the same thing as Harry that night. The looming, shadowy hound that had been watching them from the darkness. Why hadn’t it killed them right then and there? Why drag things out like this? As Hermione pointed out, why should they be alive weeks later if the mere sight of the Grim caused witches and wizards to face their death?

Violet shut the book and stuffed it back into the bottom of her trunk. She didn’t want to think about death and dying anymore. Things had been trying to kill her and Harry since they were babies and nothing had managed to do the job yet. Voldemort had failed three times already, Harry had escaped from man-eating spiders, and the pair of them had both faced an ancient Basilisk and lived. If, after all of that, plus all the years of suffering under the Dursleys roof,  _ if _ the sight a big spooky looking dog was all it took to do Violet Potter in, she would eat her own wand in shock.

_ Rubbish, _ Violet thought, pulling Crookshanks from the foot of the bed and holding him to her chest.

“No dog is going to get me,” she muttered out loud, burying her face in the thick, soft fur of Crookshanks’ neck. “You won’t let it, will you Crooks? I know cats are meant to be afraid of dogs, but you’re too fierce for that, aren’t you? Aren’t you, love?”

Crookshanks, who had moments ago been sleeping soundly, let out a grumpy little mew. Violet kissed the top of his little head, put him back where he’d been laying, and climbed out of bed to head up to dinner.


	7. The Boggart in the Wardrobe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Malfoy didn’t reappear in classes until late on Thursday morning, when the Slytherins and Gryffindors were halfway through double Potions. He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Violet’s opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle.

“How is it, Draco?” simpered Pansy Parkinson. “Does it hurt terribly?”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of grimace. But Violet saw him wink at Crabbe and Goyle when Pansy had looked away. Next to Violet, Tracey quietly mimed retching onto the floor.

“Settle down, settle down,” said Professor Snape idly. He was focusing on the simmering cauldron in front of him and had unfortunately missed Malfoy and Pansy’s sickening exchange. Even so, the admonishment was unusually light; normally if a student walked into class late and started making a fool of themselves, Professor Snape would give them detention, as well as a humiliating dressing down. But Malfoy had always been able to get away with anything in Snape’s class.

They were making a new potion today, a Shrinking Solution. Violet watched with narrowed eyes as Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to Harry and Ron, so that they were preparing their ingredients on the same table.

“Sir,” Malfoy called, “sir, I’ll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm —”

“Weasley, cut up Malfoy’s roots for him,” said Snape without looking up.

Ron went brick red.

“There’s nothing wrong with your arm,” he hissed at Malfoy.

Violet, glancing over from the next table, saw Malfoy smirk.

“Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these roots.”

Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy’s roots toward him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they were all different sizes.

“Professor,” drawled Malfoy, “Weasley’s mutilating my roots, sit.”

Snape finally looked up from his work at the front of the class and apparched the table. With his back to Violet she couldn’t see his face, but judging from Ron’s sour expression he clearly wasn’t smiling.

“Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley.”

“But, sir — !”

“ _Now_ ,” said Snape in his most dangerous voice. The tone made Violet flinch; it reminded her of the encounter she and Harry had witnessed in their first year, secretly observing Snape threatening Professor Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest. Though it was later revealed that Professor Snape was trying to scare Quirrell straight instead of intimidating him into doing his bidding, the scene had left a vivid, uncomfortable impression in Violet’s mind.

“And, sir,” said Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter, “I’ll need this shrivelfig skinned.”

“Potter,” — Violet’s head snapped up, only to realize he was talking to Harry — “you can skin Malfoy’s shrivelfig,” said Snape coldly. He turned and started making his rounds through the class, giving Violet back her clear view of Harry’s table; her brother looked furious, and Ron’s face was redder than she’d ever seen it. Malfoy was smirking.

“Seen your pal Hagrid lately?” she heard him say quietly, and immediately stiffened.

“None of your business,” said Ron jerkily.

“I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,” said Malfoy in a tone of mock sorrow. “Father’s not very happy about my injury —”

“ _What_ injury?” Violet heard Tracey breathe beside her.

“— he’s complained to the school governors. _And_ to the Ministry of Magic. Father’s got a lot of influence, you know —”

“— you mean a lot of _money_ —”

“And with a lasting injury like this” — he gave a huge, fake sigh — “who knows if my arm’ll ever be the same again?”

“ _Ow!_ ” Violet hissed loudly; her hands had been shaking in anger and she’d sliced deeply into the side of her thumb. She dropped the knife as blood welled up from the cut. Professor Snape swept over to her in an instant.

“Hospital wing, Potter,” he said, looking down at her bleeding thumb. Violet shook her head.

“That’s alright, sir, it’s not too bad. I can still do my own work, unlike _some_ people.”

Across the way, Malfoy’s ears went pink. Violet could have sworn the corner of Snape’s mouth twitched up in a smirk.

“Very well,” said Professor Snape. “Beware getting blood onto your workstation, or I’ll have you staying behind the scrub the whole desk clean, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Violet said brightly. She sucked the cut until it stopped bleeding, shot a wilting look at Malfoy, and went back to slicing her caterpillars.

A few cauldrons away, Neville was in trouble. Neville regularly went to pieces in Potions lessons; it was his worst subject, and his great fear of Professor Snape made things ten times worse. His potion, which was supposed to be a bright, acid green, had turned —

“Orange, Longbottom,” said Snape, ladling some up and allowing it to splash back into the cauldron, so that everyone could see. “Orange. Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn’t you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed? Didn’t I state plainly that a dash of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?”

Neville was pink and trembling. He looked as though he was on the verge of tears.

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, “please, I could help Neville put it right —”

“I don’t remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger,” said Snape coldly. “Longbottom, at the end of this lesson we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad and see what happens. Perhaps it will encourage you to do it properly.”

Snape moved away, leaving Neville trembling with fear. Violet looked over at him sympathetically, but he was too far away for her to help him without getting caught. Nor did she think Neville would be particularly inclined to accept help from her anyways, after the nasty ‘misunderstanding’ between them the year before; rather than snitch on a classmate, Violet had taken the blame for tampering with one of Neville’s potions, a mistake that sent her to the hospital wing. The truth had come out, but Violet never would forget the look of hurt and betrayal on Neville’s round face when she had first been made to apologize to him. Fortunately, Hermione was close to him, and known to be trustworthy. Violet could see her learning closer to Neville’s table, whispering to him out of the side of her mouth.

“Hey, Harry,” someone muttered; a Gryffindor boy at the table behind Harry, leaning over to borrow his brass scales, “have you heard? _Daily Prophet_ this morning — they reckon Sirius Black’s been sighted.”

“Where?” said Harry and Ron quickly. Violet stopped chopping so that she could listen in as well.

“Not too far from here,” said the boy, sounding excited. “It was a Muggle who saw him. ’Course, she didn’t really understand. The Muggles think he’s just an ordinary criminal, don’t they? So she phoned the telephone line. By the time the Ministry of Magic got there, he was gone.”

“Not too far from here . . .” Ron repeated, looking significantly at Harry, then quickly away when he caught Violet’s eye as well. Malfoy was looking at the pair of them as well. “What, Malfoy? Need something else skinned?”

Violet added her caterpillars ands stirred slowly, looking out the corner of her eye at Malfoy, who had leaned malevolently across the table toward Harry.

“Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, Potter?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry offhandedly.

Malfoy’s thin mouth was curving into a mean smile.

“Of course, if it was me,” he said quietly, “I’d have done something before now. I wouldn’t be staying in school like a good boy, I’d be out there looking for him.”

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” said Ron roughly.

Malfoy said something, too softly for Violet to hear from where she sat, and then laughed. He leaned back a bit, sneering. Harry was looking confused.

“Maybe you’d rather not risk your neck,” said Malfoy. “Want to leave it to the dementors, do you? But if it was me, I’d want revenge. I’d hunt him down myself.”

“ _What are you talking about_?” said Harry angrily, but at that moment Snape called, “You should have finished adding your ingredients by now; this potion needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away while it simmers and then we’ll test Longbottom’s . . .”

Crabbe and Goyle laughed openly, watching Neville sweat as he stirred his potion feverishly. Violet and Tracey packed away their unused ingredients and went to wash their hands and ladles in the stone basin in the corner.

“What was Malfoy talking about?” Violet muttered, sidling up to Harry as she stuck her hands under the icy jet that poured from the gargoyle’s mouth. “Why would we want revenge on Black? He hasn’t done anything to us — yet.”

“He’s making it up,” said Ron savagely. “He’s trying to make Harry do something stupid . . .”

“He doesn’t have to try so hard to do _that_ ,” Violet muttered, catching her brother’s eye with a smile. Harry shook his head.

“Thanks for that, Violet . . .”

The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron.

“Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned.”

Violet frowned unhappily as Snape picked up Trevor the toad in his left hand and dipped a small spoon into Neville’s potion, which was now green. He trickled a few drops down Trevor’s throat.

There was a moment of hushed silence, in which Trevor gulped; then there was a small pop, and Trevor the tadpole was wriggling in Snape’s palm.

The whole lot of Gryffindors burst into applause, with Violet, Tracey, and a couple other Slytherins joining in. Only Malfoy and his crew stayed silent. Snape, looking sour, pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his robe, poured a few drops on top of Trevor, and he reappeared suddenly, fully grown.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, which wiped the smiles from every face. “I told you not to help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed.”

Neville took Trevor with shaking hands and darted from the classroom with him. Violet slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to follow her brother out and continue their conversation when Professor Snape called, “Hold a moment, Potter.”

Violet and Harry both stopped and turned in the doorway.

“Sir?” they said together, staring expectantly. Professor Snape glared at the pair of them.

“ _Miss_ Potter,” he snapped. “The rest of you, out.”

After a nervous look back at Violet, Harry left the Potions classroom and shut the door quietly behind him. Violet swallowed and made her way back to Snape’s desk at the front of the class.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked.

“Not today, Potter,” said Snape, who was magically clearing away the ingredients from his desk, “though I believe you have several hours until dinner, so there’s still time.”

Violet, surprised by the jab, giggled. Snape looked up at her. He stared, for an uncomfortably long moment, at her face.

“Who struck you?” he asked softly, and it took a moment for Violet to realize what he was talking about. Her hand jumped up to her cheek, and the bruise that still lingered there. It _was_ fading, just very slowly.

“No one,” she lied, covering the bruise with her fingers. “I fell.”

“You think I don’t know a handprint when I see one?” said Professor Snape; his voice was still soft, but his black eyes were glinting oddly. “ _Who_ struck you?”

Violet weighed her options.

She could stick with the lie, easily, and likely get Snape to lecture her about clumsiness — but it would protect her and Harry from revealing the tragic and embarrassing state of their homelife. Or, she could name Uncle Vernon as the culprit and . . . and _what_? What could Professor Snape do about it? The Minister of Magic already knew what was going on, and he said he would do something, didn’t he?

“My uncle,” blurted Violet, throwing caution to the wind. She’d had enough of lying, enough of covering up for the Dursleys cruelties. “He slapped me.”

Snape didn’t looked shocked, or sympathetic, or try to console her. He continued to stare, his thin lips going even thinner.

“Why?”

“He doesn’t like magic,” Violet said plainly.

“Has he hit you before?” asked Snape. Violet hesitated a moment.

“Not in the face, sir, no.”

“And Petunia allows this?” he asked, an edge to his voice. The laugh that bubbled out of Violet’s mouth wasn’t mirthful in the least. It sounded bitter and strained even to her own ears.

“It doesn’t matter what she _allows_ , as if she’s not just as bad at him. Aunt Petunia hates magic probably more than Uncle Vernon does. She won’t have it in the house. She’ll barely have me and Harry in the house, and —”

Violet broke off suddenly. There was a funny sort of ringing in her ears as she looked back into the black eyes across from her, watching her so intently. She tilted her head to the side and asked, “How do you know my aunt’s name?”

Professor Snape was usually quite expressive with his emotions, be it anger, displeasure, or delight, but in that moment his features were completely unreadable to Violet.

“I’m familiar with the names of the guardians of most, if not all, the students in my House, Miss Potter,” Snape said. “And if you’ll recall I’ve had several occasions to write to your aunt and uncle regarding your behavior over the years.”

Violet flushed slightly; but the ringing was still in her ears, like a distant, high-pitched chime being struck.

“But you didn’t _call_ her my aunt,” she pressed, not really sure why she was doing it, “you called her Petunia, like you knew her —”

“My apologies for any overt familiarity,” said Professor Snape. “But no, I don’t believe I’ve been acquainted with Mrs. Dursley. Now —”

Snape stood up abruptly and Violet took a hasty step back, startled — but he turned and walked away from her, going instead for the locked door room to his personal storage closet. He disappeared inside and Violet, unsure what else to do, stood there and fidgeted. When Snape appeared a minute later, he carried a small stoppered pot in his hand, which he reached across the desk and set in front of Violet.

“Apply a thin layer of this to the bruise before bed,” he told her. “It will have faded by morning.”

“Oh,” said Violet, taken aback by both the gesture and the change of subject. “That’s — I mean, thank you, sir —”

“You can return the jar tomorrow evening,” Snape said without looking at her. He had gone back to clearing away his desk, sending bottles and jaws of ingredients sailing smoothly back to the places on the shelves lining the walls.

“W-why would I come back here tomorrow evening?” Violet asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I don’t have your class again until next week, sir.”

“Pleased that I am you’ve memorized your entire schedule so quickly,” said Professor Snape dryly, “you _will_ be returning to my classroom tomorrow evening, and every Friday evening hereafter to continue serving out your detentions which, due to the . . . _unfortunate_ events of last year, were left incomplete.”

“My _detentions_ ?” Violet said, stunned. She was outraged to the verge of tears for several moments, wondering what on _earth_ she could have done to earn so many detentions that they could carry over from the school year before, but then —

“You mean you’re still going to be giving me lessons?”

Again, Professor Snape looked up at her, glancing sidelong from beneath the curtains of his dark hair.

“Though that may be what such meetings are, I would not appreciate word spreading that I’m offering private tutoring indiscriminately. If any dunderheads show up at my door demanding I give up my precious few after-hours for their benefit, it will be you, Miss Potter, that I look to to blame, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, very clear, sir,” Violet said, beaming. The prospect of getting back into learning advanced potions and brewing techniques had wiped all worries and suspicion from her mind. She’d learned so much from Professor Snape last year and was ecstatic at the opportunity to continue doing so. “Thank you, professor!”

“Don’t thank me yet, Potter,” Snape said, looking away from her once more. He glanced at the ancient clock that hung at the back of the room, then reached for a sheet of parchment. “You’ve missed the break, you’ll be late — what is your next class?”

“Oh, er — Professor Lupin’s. Defense Against the Dark Arts, I mean.”

Snape’s quill paused over the parchment. It hung there long enough for a fat, black bead of ink to drip onto it, seeping into the paper. Violet couldn’t see his face for the hair in the way, but it was obvious from his rigid posture that he wasn’t happy at all. From outside the classroom, Violet could hear the footsteps and voices of the next class waiting to be let in.

Finally, Professor Snape scrawled a quick note on the page, passed his hand over the paper to dry the ink, folded it, and pressed the tip of his wand to the seam, leaving a official-looking green seal where it touched. He thrust the paper at Violet. He did not, however, let go when she tried to take it. Violet looked up and found herself staring into his cold, black eyes.

“Be wary of that man,” Snape said quietly, his gaze boring into her. “He is not what he seems.”

He let go of the paper. Violet blinked and suddenly found herself staring at his back, confusion and icy dread mingling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to ask what that meant, what he _knew_ — but the voices outside the door were growing louder and more impatient, and Professor Snape was unlikely to answer any more questions from her today. She’d taken up enough of his time.

Violet pocketed the letter and the small jar Snape had given her and hurried out of the dungeons with a terrible uncertainty churning in her guts.

 

Violet raced from the dungeons to the third floor as fast as her legs would carry her. She leapt over the trick step on the Grand Staircase, skidded around every corner she rounded, and, right as a stitch began to form in her side, made it to the third floor corridor with Professor Snape’s note of pardon clutched in her left hand. The door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was shut. Violet seized the handle, yanked it open, and ran directly into Professor Lupin, who was doing the exact same thing from the other side. They collided painfully.

“ _Oof_!” grunted Lupin, staggering back. Violet clutched her nose, which had hit his chest rather forcefully, blinking hard against the sudden pain. From inside the classroom she heard the laughter of a dozen other students break out.

“Sorry!” Violet gasped as she steadied herself on the doorframe. “I’m so sorry, sir, I wasn’t — I didn’t expect anyone to be —”

“It’s quite alright, Violet,” said Professor Lupin kindly, smiling, though he did look a little winded. He was a shabby as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train, as though he had had a few square meals. “Glad to see you made it to class, we were just heading out. I’d hate for you to have missed us.”

Violet realized that all of her classmates were gathered in a disorderly line behind Lupin, giggling and staring her. They did indeed to be leaving the room.

“I — I have a note,” said Violet sheepishly. She stuck Snape’s note out in front of her. Professor Lupin took it and tucked it into his pocket without so much as a glance.

“Excellent, thank you. Would you care to join the rest of the class, please? We’ll be having a practical lesson today.”

Bewildered, Violet quickly stepped aside to let Professor Lupin lead the group of her classmates out of the room; it was another double lesson with the Gryffindors, meaning that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Tracey hung back toward the end of the line to join up with Violet.

“Are you okay?” Tracey asked, rushing up to Violet and immediately linking their arms together. “I’m surprised you didn’t bowl him right over, with how hard you two ran into each other.”

“Oh, shut up,” Violet muttered, flushing again. Tracey giggled again. Harry appeared on Violet’s other side.

“What did Snape want?” he asked quietly. “Did he try to get you in trouble for something?”

Violet knew all too well that Harry had a grudge against Professor Snape, and after his treatment of Neville in their last lesson she couldn’t really fault him for it. Not that _he_ had to know that, of course.

“I lost fifty House points for mouthing off,” Violet said flatly, “and I got about eleven detentions with Filch for it, too.”

Harry looked horrified. Violet cracked a grin and punched him gently in the arm.

“I’m kidding, Harry, don’t be daft.”

“That’s not funny, Vi, I was really angry for a second there,” Harry said, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “So what did he _really_ want then? I mean, Snape kept you long enough after class.”

“It’s nothing, he just wanted to talk to me.”

“But what _about_?”

“I’m not in trouble, don’t worry about it.”

“Violet, it’s _Snape_ , of course I’m worried about it —”

“Oh, _no_ ,” groaned Ron. The twins both looked from their bickering, and realized that the class had come to a halt again.

Up ahead, floating upside down in midair and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum was Peeves the Poltergeist.

Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two feet away; then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and broke into song.

“Loony, loopy Lupin,” Peeves sang. “Loony, loopy Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin —”

Rude and unmanageable as he almost always was, Peeves usually showed some respect toward the teachers. Everyone looked quickly at Professor Lupin to see how he would take this; to their surprise, he was still smiling.

“I’d take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, Peeves,” he said pleasantly. “Mr. Filch won’t be able to get in to his brooms.”

Filch was the Hogwarts caretaker, a bad-tempered, failed wizard who waged a constant war against the students and, indeed, Peeves. However, Peeves paid no attention to Professor Lupin’s words, except to blow a loud wet raspberry.

Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his wand.

“This is a useful little spell,” he told the class over his shoulder. “Please watch closely.”

He raised the wand to shoulder height, said, “ _Waddiwassi_!” and pointed it at Peeves.

With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves’ left nostril; he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing.

“Cool, sir!” said Dean Thomas in amazement.

“Thank you, Dean,” said Professor Lupin, putting his wand away again. “Shall we proceed?”

They all set off again, most of the class looking at shabby Professor Lupin with increased respect. The exceptions, of course, were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Violet could see them muttering to one another up ahead and hated to think what horrible things they might be saying. Nevertheless they followed with the rest, as Professor Lupin led them down a second corridor and stopped, right outside the staffroom door.

“Inside, please,” said Professor Lupin, opening it and standing back.

The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old, mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher. Professor Flitwick was sitting in a low armchair with a cup of steaming tea resting on the arm, and he squeaked in surprise at the sight of them all as they filed in.

“Good gracious! What —” His shock turned to delight as Professor Lupin came in and shut the door behind him. “Ah, Lupin! Interesting looking first lesson you’ve got going on, eh? Need me out of the way?”

Flitwick, who was so small he could hardly have been in anyone’s way, ever, made to hop to his feet only to be stopped by a wave from Professor Lupin.

“No, no, Professor, that’s quite alright. I’d happy to have you observe the operation.”

“And I shall be very happy to observe it!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, looking pleased as he settled back into his chair. “You’ve got some very sharp minds in this bunch. Miss Granger, for one, and Mr. Zabini, and both Potters are quite proficient with their spellwork!” He shot an encouraging wink at Harry and Violet. “I’d be very excited to have them both in the same class, if I were you. Lucky, lucky . . .”

Violet felt the eyes of other students turn toward her and her brother and immediately wanted to Vanish herself. It didn’t help that Professor Lupin was looking at them as well, smiling appraisingly. Even though his eyes still carried that same kindness Violet had noted on the Hogwarts Express, she couldn’t shake the odd warning that Professor Snape had given her only a little while ago.

_He is not what he seems . . ._

“Now, then,” said Professor Lupin suddenly, beckoning the class toward the end of the room, where there was nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept their spare robes. As Lupin went to stand next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging off the wall.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Professor Lupin calmly because a few people had jumped backward in alarm. “There’s a boggart in there.”

Violet had to disagree — this _was_ something to worry about, if she remembered her reading correctly. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of pure terror, and even Malfoy eyed the now rattling doorknob apprehensively.

“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” said Professor Lupin. “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks — I’ve even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. _This_ one moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to me to give my third years some practice.

“So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what _is_ a boggart?”

Both Violet and Hermione put their hands up. Hermione, however, did not wait to be called upon.

“It’s a shape-shifter,” she said. “It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us the most.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Professor Lupin, and Hermione glowed. Violet let her hand drop limply to her side with a pout. “So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears.

“This means,” said Professor Lupin, choosing to ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Violet?”

Trying to answer a question with Hermione in front of her, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with her hand in the air, was very off-putting, but Violet was fairly certain she knew what answer Lupin was looking for.

“Because we’re all together; there are so many of us, it won’t know what shape it should take.”

“Precisely,” said Professor Lupin, and this time it was Hermione’s turn to drop her hand. “It’s always best to have company with you’re dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake — tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.

“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is _laughter_. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.

“We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please . . . _riddikulus!_ ”

“ _Riddikulus_!” said the class together.

“This class is ridiculous,” Violet heard Malfoy mutter to Goyle.

“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Very good. But that was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville.”

Everyone turned to look at Neville Longbottom. The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as he was. After a moment of stillness — Violet feared for a moment he may have fainted while standing up — Neville walked forward as though he were heading for the gallows.”

“Right, Neville,” said Professor Lupin. “First thing’s first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?”

Neville’s lips moved, but no noise came out.

“Didn’t catch that, Neville, sorry,” said Professor Lupin cheerfully.

Neville looked around rather wildly, as though begging someone to help him, then said, in barely more than a whisper, “Professor Snape.”

Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked thoughtful.

“Professor Snape . . . hmmm . . . Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?”

“Er — yes,” said Neville nervously. “But — I don’t want the boggart to turn into her either.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” said Professor Lupin, now smiling. “I wonder, Neville, if you could do something for me. Can you please picture, very clearly in your mind, the sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?”

Neville looked started, but started to say, “Well . . . she carries a red handbag . . .”

Professor Lupin shushed him gently.

“We don’t need to hear. So long as you see it, we’ll see it. Can you see it in your mind’s eye?”

“Yes,” said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering what was coming next.

“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Now, what I want you to do is . . .”

He leaned in to whisper something into Neville’s ear. He was still smiling, though Neville was looking more bewildered than ever at whatever he’d been told. Professor Lupin straightened up and turned back to the rest of the class.

“If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn,” he said. “I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical . . .”

The room went quiet. Violet thought . . . What scared her most in the world?

Her first thought was Lord Voldemort — a Voldemort returned to full strength, intent on hunting her and Harry down and finishing what he’d tried and failed to do to them over twelve years ago. But before she had even started to plan a possible counterattack on a boggart-Voldemort, a horrible image came floating to the surface of her mind.

A pair of slit yellow eyes, set in the face of a massive, terrible serpent . . . the very symbol of Slytherin House, with a mouth of fangs as long and sharp as daggers . . . a sick, lurching realizating come far too late, followed by paralysis and then darkness . . . endless, mindless, black oblivion . . .

Violet shivered, then looked around, hoping no one had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight. Harry was looking very pale, and Tracey’s face was scrunched up in concentration.

“Everyone ready?” said Professor Lupin.

Violet felt a lurch of fear. She wasn’t ready. How could you make a Basilisk less frightening? But she didn’t want to ask for more time; everyone was nodding and rolling up their sleeves.

“Neville, we’re going to back away,” said Professor Lupin. “Let you have a clear field, alright? I’ll call the next person forward . . . Everyone back, now, so Neville can get a clear shot —”

They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and frightened, but he had pushed up the sleeves of his robes and was holding his wand ready.

“On the count of three, Neville,” said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. “One — two — three — _now_!”

A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin’s wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape appeared, his black eyes flashing at Neville.

Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes.

“ _R_ — _r_ — _riddikulus_!” squeaked Neville.

There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled; he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed green dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, a fox-fur scarf, and from his arm was swinging a huge crimson handbag.

There was a roar of laughter; even Professor Flitwick’s stifled chortles could be heard behind them. The boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, “Parvati! Forward!”

Parvati Patil, the girl that Violet had pretended to be on the Knight Bus, walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded on her. There was another crack, and where he had stood was a blood-stained, bandaged mummy; its sightless face was turning to Parvati and it began to walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, its stiff arms rising —

“ _Riddikulus_!” cried Parvati.

A bandage unraveled at the mummy’s feet; it became entangled, fell face forward, and its head rolled off. Harry took an eager step forward, but —

“Seamus!” roared Professor Lupin.

Seamus darted past Parvati.

_Crack_! Where the mummy had been was a woman with floor-length black hair and skeletal, green-tinged face — a banshee. She opened her mouth wide and an unearthly sound filled the room, a long, wailing shriek that back the hair on the back of Violet’s neck stand on end —

“ _Riddikulus_!” shouted Seamus.

The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her throat; her voice was gone.

_Crack_ ! The banshee turned into a rat, which chased its tail in a circle, then — _crack!_ — became a snarling dog with foam dribbling out of its mouth before — _crack_! — becoming a single, bloody eyeball.

“It’s confused!” shouted Lupin. “We’re getting there! Theodore!”

Theodore Nott hurried forward.

_Crack_! The eyeball became a severed hand, which flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a crab.

“ _Riddikulus_!” yelled Theodore.

There was a snap, and the hand was caught in a mousetrap.

“Excellent! Ron, you next!”

Ron leapt forward.

_Crack_!

Quite a few people screamed, Tracey loudest among them. A giant spider, six feet tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron, clicking its pincers menacingly. For a moment, Violet thought Ron had frozen. Then —

“ _Riddikulus_!” bellowed Ron, and the spider’s legs vanished; it rolled over and over; Tracey squealed and ran out of its way and it came to a halt at Violet’s feet. She raised her wand, ready, but —

“Here! Shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying forward.

_Crack_!

The legless spider had vanished. For a second, everyone looked wildly around to see where it was. Then they saw a silvery-white orb hanging in the air in front of Lupin, who said “ _Riddikulus_!” almost lazily.

_Crack!_

“Forward, Neville, and finish him off!” said Lupin as the boggart landed on the floor as a cockroach. _Crack_! Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward looking determined.

“ _Riddikulus_!” he shouted, and they had a split second’s view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville let out a great “Ha!” of laughter, and the boggart exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, and was gone.

“Excellent!” cried Professor Lupin as the class broke into applause. “Excellent, Neville. Well done, everyone . . . Let me see . . . five points for every person to tackle the boggart — ten for Neville because he did it twice . . . and five each to Hermione and Violet.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” said Violet.

“You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of the class, Violet,” Lupin said lightly. “Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me . . . to be handed in on Monday. That will be all.”

Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. Violet, however, wasn’t feeling cheerful. Professor Lupin had deliberately stopped her and Harry from taking on the boggart. Why? Was it because he’d seen them collapse on the train, and thought they weren’t up for it? Had he though they would pass out again?

No one else seemed to have noticed anything.

“Did you see that _awful_ spider?” Tracey squeaked, wrapping her arms tightly around herself with a shudder. “Oh, I’m so happy I didn’t have to go, I think I might have screamed and embarrassed myself.”

“You would’ve been brilliant,” Violet muttered, her mind a million miles away as they made their way back to the classroom to collect their bags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't ship violet with snape, she is thirteen years old and i won't have it


	8. A Secret Poorly Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people’s favourite class. Only Draco Malfoy and his gang had anything bad to say about Professor Lupin.

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses like our old house-elf.”

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes were patched and frayed. His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first. After boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten lost. From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy water-dwellers that looked like scaley monkeys, with webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders into their ponds — Violet had done very well during that lesson, thanks to having read about them the year before in a book she’d acquired from a curiosity shop.

Violet wished she could be just as happy with most of her other classes as well, however difficult things might have become. Professor Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one was in any doubt why. The story of the boggart assuming Snape’s shape, and the way Neville had dressed it in his grandmother’s clothes, had travelled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn’t seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he was bullying Neville worse than ever.

Every Friday evening, however, Violet would creep down to the Potions classroom and spend several long hours chopping, crushing, peeling, skinning, stirring, and doing everything else that Professor Snape told her to do. She had graduated from simply preparing ingredients and handing them over, and was now expected to do  _ everything _ herself while Snape stood there barking instructions and levelling critiques at her. Time management, it soon became apparent, was Violet’s worst enemy.

Professor Snape had offered no more warning about Lupin or made any more odd references to Violet’s aunt and uncle. The bruise removal cream he had lent her worked wonders; she applied it as instructed and woke up the next morning to find her skin clear and even — as clear as it could be, despite the annoying spots that kept popping up on it. While there was bound to be a cream for that as well, Violet would die before she dared ask Snape for it.

Violet was also growing to dread the hours she spent in the dim, rigidly organized classroom of Professor Vector, reading charts and calculating numbers, deciphering complicated equations in the hopes of figuring out the future. The initial allure of the subject had worn thin; Violet realized too late that it was only her mother’s notes that interested her and not the subject of Arithmancy itself. What did she want to know the future for, anyways? It’s not like anything could be done about it, according to everything she’d ever read on the subject. It was just going to  _ happen _ . She was also tired of looking up to find Professor Vector’s pale eyes fixed on her.

Violet was rather fed up with teachers staring at her lately.

She had a retreat, however, in Care of Magical Creatures. Unfortunately, after the action-packed first class, Hagrid seemed to have lost his confidence. He now had them spending lessons learning how to look after flobberworms; brown, toothless herbivores that were about as long as Violet’s forearm.

“Why would anyone  _ bother _ looking after them?” said Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded lettuce down the flobberworms’ slimy throats.

Violet didn’t bother explaining to him how vital flobberworm mucus was to the brewing of certain potions, or how interesting she found the living creatures after only working with dead ones during Snape’s private lessons; she didn’t really think he’d be interested.

Harry also didn’t share Violet’s fascination with the flobberworms, nor was he sympathetic to her boredom in Arithmancy — not when he was dealing with much worse in his own Divination class. The prediction of his death had been taken more seriously by his classmates than by Harry himself, and Professor Trelawny — whom both Harry and Hermione spoke of with marked distaste — had the habit of bursting into tears whenever she looked at him.

At the start of October, however, Violet was having trouble sympathizing with her brother as well. Quidditch season had begun, and Harry had become insufferable.

Harry was one of the seven players on the Gryffindor team, and had been made the youngest Seeker ever in his first year at Hogwarts. His broomstick, which Quidditch was played on, was Harry’s most valued possession, and the sport was one of his favourite subjects to talk about. When he  _ wasn’t _ talking about Quidditch it was only because he was busy playing it. Stakes were particularly high for the Gryffindor team because their Captain and Keeper, Oliver Wood, would be leaving Hogwarts at the end of the year. This was his last chance to win the Quidditch Cup, and the entire team was taking their goal very seriously.

Three evenings a week, Violet would watch Harry dart out of the Great Hall before dinner had even ended, rushing to get to their practice session no matter what the weather outside was like. As much as she worried her brother would catch his death out in the wind and rain, Violet knew there was nothing she could do or say to stop him from flying. As so many people liked to remind Harry, it was in his blood — their father had also been a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team while he was at school.

Violet returned to the Slytherin common room one evening after watching Harry train, cold and stiff from hunching under the bleachers, to find the room buzzing excitedly.

“What’s going on?” she asked Tracey and Cassius, who had taken over one of the small tables under the floating green lamps; Cass was working on a star chart for Astronomy while Tracey looked on in boredom.

“They’ve announced the first Hogsmeade weekend,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin board. “It’s not til the end of the month, on Halloween.”

“Brilliant time for it,” Cassius said, squinting as he measured the distance between two stars with his thumb. “The town’ll be bloody busy — wizarding folks come from all over to get fresh Pumpkin Pasties from Honeydukes.”

Violet threw herself down into the chair beside Tracey, her high spirits ebbing away. Tracey leaned comfortingly against her.

“Vi, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she said. “They’re bound to catch Black. He’s been sighted once already, remember?”

“I don’t think Black would be fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade,” said Cass. “Besides, I heard dementors have been doing sweeps of the place — the shopkeepers aren’t very happy about it and neither are their customers, but no one’s really complaining. Better than having a murderer hiding in your larder, isn’t it?”

“How do you  _ know _ all this?” Tracey asked, exasperated. “You always know everybody’s business and what the adults are talking about even when the rest of us are left in the dark.”

“It’s ’cause I  _ talk _ to people, Davis,” Cassius said, a wry grin in his face as he glanced up at the two girls. “You’d be surprised what people will tell you if you just go right up and ask.”

“Hmph,” grunted Tracey. She leaned more heavily on Violet, her body surprisingly warm so far from the fireplace. “Nobody  _ ever _ answers my questions. Mostly I get told to mind my own business, or wait until I’m older . . . But speaking of asking — Violet, you should ask Professor Snape to sign your Hogsmeade form! You’re his favourite student, he’s bound to say yes.”

“I am  _ not _ his favourite,” Violet said, scrunching up her face. “I’m not Malfoy.”

“Well he’s not giving Malfoy secret lessons, is he?” Tracey teased. Violet squirmed as a finger jabbed her sharply in the ribs.

“They’re not  _ secret _ ,” she protested, “just private. And he might be giving Malfoy lessons, too, it’s not like I’ve asked about it.”

“Maybe you should, while you’re asking about your Hogsmeade form,” said Tracey. When Violet ignored her, Tracey blew a jet of cold air straight into her ear. 

“ _ Augh _ !” yelled Violet. She shoved the other, laughing girl away and rubbed her ear against her shoulder to make the tickle go away. “What was that for?”

“For not paying attention to me!” said Tracey, braces glinting as she smiled broadly. “I give good advice, don’t you know?”

“You certainly give a lot of it,” Violet said, trying and failing to sound huffy. She was too busy holding back her own smile, so that Tracey wouldn’t think she’d won. Their little play fight was interrupted, however, by a loud scream from the girl’s dormitory.

The common room went silent as everyone whipped around to stare as the wooden door burst open and a blur of orange fur streaked out across the room. Violet recognized it at once as Crookshanks and leapt to her feet. She tried to catch him as he passed, but for such a large cat he was very nimble and easily dodged her grasping arms. Crookshanks dove underneath one of the leather armchairs and out of sight.

A moment later, Pansy Parkinson appeared in the doorway in her pajamas, a look of fury on her blotchy face, and a dead rat held by the tail in her hand.

“ _ Disgusting _ !” she shrieked to the common room at large. “That  _ awful _ , fat beast!”

Her eyes landed on Violet, standing out in the middle of the common room. She pointed with the hand holding the rat.

“Look at this!” Pansy yelled as she stomped out into the room. “I found  _ this _ on my pillow, where  _ your _ flea-ridden creature was gnawing on its guts! I’ve never been so disgusted in my life, not even by the sight of your filthy face, Potter — why don’t  _ you _ clean it up?”

Violet screeched as Pansy flung the bloodied rat carcass at her, catching  it before it could hit her in the face. She heard a chair scrape against the floor and a second later Tracey was on her feet, standing between Pansy and Violet. She had her wand drawn.

“Apologize!” Tracey shouted at Pansy.

“To her?  _ Never _ ,” Pansy spat, though she had taken a step back with Tracey’s wand trained on her. “She’s such a freak, I bet she’ll even like having that as a new pet!”

“ _ Apologize _ !” Tracey thundered again, “Or I swear I’ll —”

“Girls, that’s  _ enough _ !”

The whole common room looked around; from her seat by the fire, the new prefect Zoe Acrington had risen to her feet, the usual pretty smile gone from her thin face. She pointed to Tracey.

“Davis, lower your wand  _ now _ or I’ll have you in detention. Parkinson” — the victorious grin slid from Pansy’s face — “apologize to Potter. And  _ Potter _ . . . dispose of your cat’s mess, please, and see that it’s under control. Alright? Is that clear for everyone?”

With all the eyes of their House upon them, all three girls nodded sullenly. Tracey shot a glare at Pansy before tucking her wand back into her robes. Pansy, who was still looking furious, narrowed her eyes at Violet and muttered, “ _ Sorry _ ,” in the most unconvincing voice Violet had ever heard, then turned on her heel and stormed back down into the girl’s dormitory. Violet, for her part, was left crying in the middle of the common room and holding a dead rat. Zoe sat back down and, slowly, conversation went back to normal in the Slytherin common room.

“Come on,” Tracey murmured, tugging lightly on Violet’s arm and guiding her back to the table. “It’s over, Vi, it’s okay.”

Until Tracey touched her, Violet didn’t realize how badly she was shaking, or that tears were freely streaming down her face. She let Tracey lead her back to her seat and gently push her into her. The rat carcass was still in her cupped hands, because Violet had no idea what else to do with it.

She was scared to look at it. Not because the sight of dead animals upset her, though it did — what frightened her was the thought she might  _ recognize _ it.

Crookshanks had made no secret of his hatred for Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers. He’d attacked him more than a handful of times, and while Ron had always been able to intervene and save his pet, there had been plenty of close calls. And while Violet couldn’t imagine how Crookshanks could have not only escaped from the Slytherin common room, but then gotten  _ into _ the Gryffindor common room and come back, her heart was hammering in her chest as she steeled herself to glance down at the little furry body in her grasp.

A sigh of relief left her lungs.

This was not Scabbers. Scabbers was old and greying, with a tattered ear and a missing toe on one of his front paws. This rat was brown and white, and looked perfectly fit and healthy — aside from the bloody ruin in its side. While still horrible, it was not nearly as horrible as the thought of having to go and beg forgiveness from Ron.

“You comfortable?” Tracey snapped across the table to Cassius, who was still hunched over his star charts. “I noticed  _ you _ didn’t leap to your feet to stand up for Violet.”

“Looked like you had it handled,” Cass muttered. Nonetheless, he glanced up at Violet and sighed. “Here, let me take care of that.”

He pulled his wand from his pocket and gestured for Violet to put the rat down the table. Cassius did a curt little wave with his wand, tapped the rat, and quietly said, “ _ Evanesco. _ ” With the small pop of air rushing into an empty space, the rat vanished.

“Thanks, Cass,” Violet said quietly. “And thanks, Tracey, for — for standing up for me like that. Nobody’s ever done that before . . . besides —”

“— Besides Harry,” Tracey finished for her, smiling sadly. She jostled Violet’s shoulder with her own. “Well get used to it, because you’ve got me now. And sometimes Cass.”

“Oh, come  _ on, _ ” Cassius muttered, but he was smiling too.

The three of them stayed up late that night, waiting for everyone else to filter out and for the common room to fall silent. Violet leaned gratefully into the one-armed hug Cass pulled her into before following Tracey into the girl’s dormitory. The curtains around Pansy’s bed were drawn shut, but there was a gap in them that would let her see if anyone were to come in the door; through it, Violet could just see Pansy’s sleeping, open-mouthed face as she crawled into her own bed.

She had just about fallen asleep when Crookshanks leapt onto her feet and settled in to sleep.

 

In the following week, Violet was certain that Pansy was giving her the cold shoulder, which would have been effective if she ever paid any attention to Violet in the first place. The hurtfulness was lost, and Violet was left to enjoy to silence.

If only everyone else could have been as courteous.

Everywhere she went Violet overheard people talking about Hogsmeade. How excited they were, what shops they were looking forward to visiting, goodies they were planning to pick up. It was unbearable. All that fun and excitement and Violet couldn’t enjoy any of it — Aunt Marge couldn’t keep her mouth shut and Violet couldn’t keep her temper in check, and some madman was out for her and Harry’s blood. A collaboration of horrible circumstances that conspired to keep her confined within the cold stone walls of the castle.

It was funny — Violet had never felt trapped at Hogwarts before, but hearing all the joy and laughter around her, joy she couldn’t partake in, had her feeling exactly that.

Three times, Violet had resolved to ask Professor Snape about signing her Hogsmeade permission slip, and three times she had lost her nerve. She’d run the words over and over in her head, trying to get them all in order before saying anything out loud. It was nerve-wracking enough in theory, asking any sort of favor from Snape, even after all the kindness he’d done her — in practice, Violet found it practically impossible. Her palms began to sweat, her heart would race, and she could feel the nervous tears pricking at the corners of her eyes just waiting to spill out and embarrass her. She didn’t want to cry in front of Professor Snape. It was bad enough she’d cried of front of the whole common room, again. The worst, she told herself, was that he could refuse to sign it. The very, very worst was that he might make her explain why the Dursleys hadn’t signed it in the first place. Then she  _ would _ start crying . . .

Harry hadn’t had any luck, either. He sullenly told Violet about asking Professor McGonagall after class, only for her to shoot him down straight away. Only a parent or guardian could sign, she insisted.

Professor Snape was neither Violet’s parent nor her guardian, but he was also known for bending the rules for students in his own House — particularly those he favoured. And if Tracey was right, as she so often insisted that she was, that privileged group included Violet herself. Being a Slytherin was all about being resourceful and using circumstances to one’s advantage, wasn’t it? Surely no one could fault her for doing just that.

The day before Halloween was Violet’s last chance. The permission slips had to be turned in before the next morning; if she didn’t get it signed at all, then there was no chance of ever going to Hogsmeade even if Sirius Black were apprehended in the next hour.

As it was a Saturday, no classes were being held. The teachers were scarce on the weekends, usually only spotted at meal times or patrolling the halls. Professor Snape liked to make himself especially unavailable when classes weren’t in session — Cassius suggested that he was likely in the staff room, but that was the last place Violet wanted to find him. If there were other teachers present they might convince Snape that he shouldn’t sign the form before Violet got the chance to convince him he  _ should _ . No, it would be better to talk to him alone. 

The trip down to the other side of the dungeons no longer frightened Violet the way it used to. She’d gotten used to walked the halls on her own at night, thanks to her weekly lessons from Professor Snape, and having walked the exact same path the night before did help to ease her mind somewhat. With the folded permission form clenched tightly in her hand, Violet walked quickly and confidently down to the Potions classroom. When it was shut and locked with no noise of source of light inside, she continued down the hall until she reached the door of Professor Snape’s office. It, too, was shut, and Violet knew better than to test if it was locked. After taking a series of deep breaths to steady her nerves, Violet raised a fist to the door and knocked.

The seconds crawled by. It was very quiet in the hallway, but the dungeons were never silent. There always seemed to be water dripping from somewhere very far off, and every once in a while a gust of icy, mildewy air would ruffle someone’s hair or robes. Violet listened now to the uncomfortably loud sound of her own breathing, and the rough  _ scritch _ of her fingernail against the paper in her hands.

Finally, just as she was about to turn tail and sprint back to the common room, there was a metallic  _ shink! _ and the office door opened inward by a foot. In the gap, Professor Snape’s pale, suspicious face glared back at her.

“Potter,” he said, eyes narrowing, “what do you think you’re doing out of bed at this hour?”

“It’s only nine thirty, sir,” said Violet nervously. “Weekend curfew isn’t until ten.”

Snape’s eyes glittered coldly at her.

“Cutting it rather close, aren’t you?” The door opened a bit wider; Professor Snape stuck his head out and took a look up and down the corridor, as though he expected someone to be lurking just out sight. Seeing nothing, he turned his attention back to Violet. “What are you doing here, Potter? What do you want?”

“I — er —” Violet found that her mouth had suddenly gone very dry. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I have a favor to ask, sir, if you’ve got a moment? I’m sorry for bothering you to late, only — it’s a bit p-personal.”

Stammering and stumbling over her words, Violet was sure that Snape was going to tell her off and send her back to the common room empty handed. The way he was glaring at her certainly wasn’t very encouraging. Professor Snape looked over his shoulder, back into his office, with a frown. After a moment, he stepped back and fully opened the door.

“In,” he ordered, punctuated by a jerk of his head, “before Filch catches you wandering the halls. Enduring one of his speeches about student irresponsibility is the last thing I need tonight. I said  _ in _ , Potter.”

Violet practically leapt through the doorway. Snape was clearly in an already foul mood and she didn’t want to make it any worse before getting what she wanted.

Professor Snape’s office was much warmer and brighter than the last time Violet had visited it, on the first night of school the year before. She, Harry, and Ron had been in a lot of trouble then, which had made the place all the more intimidating, but now that she was entering it on her own terms the room didn’t look quite so frightening.

The walls were still lined with shelves containing hundreds of glass jars containing all manner of creatures and plants suspended in a variety of coloured liquids. There was a fire going in the fireplace now, and the flames glittered prettily off of all the glass.

The last time Violet had seen Professor Snape’s desk, it was covered in a large tray of neverending sandwiches and two large pitchers of iced pumpkin juice, summoned by Professor McGonagall. But there were no sandwiches now. A large, very fine looking silver cauldron was bubbling away, heated by a bright green flame; a stained cutting board was shoved to the edge of the desk, and Violet could see several small cups of ingredients ready to be added.

She stepped aside as Professor Snape swept past her toward the desk, watching as he carefully stirred the black mixture within the cauldron with a ladle that also looked to be made of silver.

“Come here, Potter,” he said sharply, pointing to the side of the desk next to him. “You might as well make yourself useful while you’re here — particularly as you’re here asking for  _ favours _ .”

Violet quickly stepped to Professor Snape’s side. As soon as she did an acrid, rancid smell hit her nose and nearly sent her reeling backward.

“Wh-what is that?” Violet coughed, holding her arm to her mouth and nose to block the smell.

“A very complicated and expensive potion to produce,” Snape said, setting aside the ladle and reaching for one of the small cups which looked to contain a thick, dark green sludge. “You should count yourself lucky, Miss Potter; very few people have the chance to see it being brewed.”

Standing close enough for the fumes to make her eyes water, Violet didn’t feel very lucky at all.

“But what  _ is _ it?” Violed asked again, squinting at the roiling black liquid within. Its texture was very thick, but not lumpy at all. It was like nothing she’d never seen before.

“This is a Wolfsbane Potion,” said Professor Snape, “for your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“But I didn’t think we were starting on werewolves until next quarter?”

“Hmm,” hummed Professor Snape idly. He tipped the green sludge into the cauldron and it came sliding cleanly from the bowl. The potion hissed menacingly and turned from dark black to the colour of dried mud. Violet leaned as far back from the cauldron as she could without falling over.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” asked Snape suddenly, glancing at the folded parchment in Violet’s hand. She looked at it as well, rather stupidly, trying to remember why she had come here in the first place.

“Oh!” she said finally. “Right, sorry, er — I’ve been meaning to speak to you about it earlier, sir, but there was never really a good time for it I didn’t think, and I know you don’t like being bothered after hours —”

“And yet here you are,” said Snape dryly. Violet’s face went hot, but she pressed on.

“— but I figured if I didn’t say anything now then I’d never get the chance, and if I didn’t at least try then there was no way of knowing whether you’d say yes or not, and I figured the longer I waited the longer I could feel like there was still a shot at it —

“Out with it, Potter,” snapped Professor Snape as he gave the potion another series of stirs. Violet swallowed down her growing anxiety, unfolded the paper, and held it out toward him.

“I need you to sign my Hogsmeade permission form, sir,” she said in a rush. And then, quickly, “Please.”

Snape didn’t say anything right away. He tapped the silver ladle on the rim of the cauldron, knocking away the sticky excess before setting it aside. He reached for another of the small bowls.

“I did wonder why yours was the only form I hadn’t yet received,” said Professor Snape quietly. He grabbed a pinch of whatever was in the bowl and sprinkled it delicately into the cauldron. “Is there a reason your aunt and uncle did not sign it?”

“My aunt was supposed to if we were g— I mean, if we behaved,” Violet said, choosing her words carefully. “But then me and Harry — er — left . . .”

Professor Snape silently added another pinch to potion, which was now back to boiling softly. Violet swallowed anxiously and pressed on.

“But — I thought that if _you_ signed it, or said that I could go —”

“And why would I do that?” said Snape softly; it was the sort of softness she recognized all too well, as it was usually turned against someone making a fool of themselves in class. Violet’s heart sank.

“I — because you’re my head of House, sir, and I thought —”

“Whatever you thought is irrelevant, Potter,” Professor Snape snapped, cutting her off. “It was clearly stated that the permission form must be signed by a parent or guardian. As the former is unavailable, the latter unwilling, and I would not advise paying Lupin a visit at this hour, that means no permission has been granted. No form, no visiting the village. Perhaps that rule was not made clear enough?”

Violet blinked very quickly, partly to keep the tears from slipping down her cheeks and partly out of confusion.

“What’s Professor Lupin got to do with anything?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“You said — you said I shouldn’t visit Professor Lupin about my permission form. What does  _ he _ have to do with anything?”

“Did I?” said Professor Snape quietly, placing the little metal bowl back on his desk with a soft clink. Violet stared at him, waiting for further explanation, but none came. Snape simply went back to his meticulous stirring of the potion, leaving Violet standing there silently with bitter tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. When what felt like several minutes had passed without another word from him, Violet turned and took a step toward the door.

“I haven’t dismissed you yet, Potter,” said Professor Snape, stopping her in her tracks. Violet glanced up to find him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Get back here. I did say you might as well make yourself useful while you’re here, did I not?”

Violet sullenly returned to her place by his side. Snape pointed to a mortar and pestle on the opposite side of the desk, and Violet picked it up. She was relieved to find that whatever was inside of it had already been crushed into an extremely fine powder; it was pale and translucent like glass, and shimmered up at her as she turned it in the light. Professor Snape stepped to the side and gestured for Violet to join him in front of the cauldron. The mixture within was still a sickly looking brown, bubbling away over the odd green flame. The smell was overwhelmingly terrible.

“Stand back,” Snape instructed, though he remained where he was, “and slowly pour the moonstone onto the surface of the potion in an anti-clockwise spiral. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir,” Violet muttered. She gestured the motion with her free hand, just to be sure, and Professor Snape gave a curt nod.

“Good. Add it now.”

Holding her arm out in front of her, Violet carefully tipped the contents of the mortar into the cauldron, tracing the sharp of a spiral onto its surface with the powdered moonstone. When the mortar was upside down and empty she pulled her arm back, just in time for Professor Snape to swoop back in with his silver ladle. He stirred quickly, following the shape of the shimmering spiral as he worked the powder into the thick potion, which had begun to boil more dramatically. Violet watched the colour turn from brown to a dark, disgusting grey. Professor Snape pulled out his wand and pointed the tip of it straight down into the cauldron.

Violet had to cover her eyes as a burst of bright blue light emanated from the end of Snape’s wand, filling the whole office with blinding radiance. In an instant it had faded, leaving Violet blinking at the spots in her vision while Professor Snape set both his wand and the ladle aside. When she could see again, Violet noted that the inside of the silver cauldron was now blackened as though covered in soot, and the potion itself was giving off a faint blue smoke. Unfortunately, the smell had not improved.

“Well done, Potter,” said Professor Snape, and Violet looked up at him in surprise.

“What for?”

“For following directions. Had you bungled up the last and most vital step of this potion, I would have had to start it over again.”

“Oh . . .” Violet said quietly. “I didn’t realize it was so important . . . “

“Every step of crafting a potion is important, Potter,” Snape said sharply. “From the beginning to the end, each stage must be completed with calculated precision, or else the finished product may be less effective or an altogether ruin. Remember that if you plan to go far in my classroom.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Violet stammered. “Thank you for — er — letting me help.”

“You might as well have gotten something out of your visit,” said Snape. He glanced the clock on his desk, a strange glass dome with a little pendulum swinging away inside, and then looked back to Violet. “It’s nearly ten o’clock, Miss Potter. If you plan on beating Mr. Filch, I suggest you start running.”

“Oh!” Violet gasped. She hurried over to the door, but stopped with her hand on the handle. She looked back at Professor Snape with wide eyes. “Sir — am I dismissed?”

Snape waved his hand lazily, and Violet heard the loud  _ shink _ ! of the door unbolting itself once more.

“Get out, Potter,” he said over his shoulder. “If you’re caught, I won’t vouch for you.”

Violet yanked the door open and sprinted down the corridor, cursing Snape under her breath all the while.

Tracey was fast asleep when she made it back to the girl’s dormitory, winded from running and mind clouded with a confusing cocktail of unpleasant emotions. Chief among them was sadness at not being able to join her friends in Hogsmeade the next day, and frustration that her plan hadn’t been successful. She’d been banking heavily on Professor Snape being willing to grant her permission to visit the village, and now that he’d shot her down . . .

But as devastating as that blow was, Violet fell asleep with a question circulating in her mind: What on earth did Professor Lupin have to do with any of this? Why had Snape mentioned his name in the first place if only to shut down when pressed about it?

Violet’s sleep was restless. She dreamed of being trapped beneath the great glass dome of Professor Snape’s clock, unable to do anything but watch as her friends walked away from her toward the bright, welcoming lights of a bustling little town in the distance. They were laughing and smiling, hanging on to one another while Violet screamed and screamed in vain for them to wait up for her. Their laughter faded as they got further and further away from her and her glass prison — but then there was a new laugh, bright and close, and Violet looked up to see a pair of hazel eyes looking down at her, kind and familiar as they lifted the glass cage up and away, freeing her . . .

Violet woke with a jolt, wondering why on earth she felt so hot. The answer was obvious once she looked down; Crookshanks was laying on her stomach and chest, curled up and fast asleep. He didn’t even stir when she brushed a sleepy hand down his back.

Warm and more than a little dazed, Violet closed her eyes and drifted off back to sleep.

When she woke the next morning, she didn’t remember her dream at all.

 

As much as Tracey was trying to keep her excitement under wraps for Violet’s sake, it practically radiated off of her in waves. On Halloween morning, Violet awoke to find her already dressed and packed, bundled up in her cloak and boots and all. She debated feigning sleep to avoid the awkwardness of inflicting her misery onto her friends, but that would have meant missing breakfast, and after life with the Dursleys Violet was resolved never to miss a meal if she could help it.

“I’ll bring you back loads of sweets from Honeydukes,” said Tracey, looking desperately sorry for her.

“Yeah, loads,” said Cassius encouragingly. “I’ll get you a whole box of those sugar quills, if you like.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Violet, in what she hoped was an offhanded voice. “I’ll see you at the feast. Have a good time.”

She accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front door, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, and Violet looked up expecting to see him grinning maliciously at her. But Malfoy’s pale eyes were fixed across the hall, on Harry, who was saying goodbye to Ron and Hermione. “Scared of passing the dementors?”

Harry ignored Malfoy and broke away from his friends, heading back toward the the marble staircase that would lead him back to Gryffindor tower. Violet hurried to catch up with him.

“Harry! Harry!” she called, and her brother whipped around to look at her in surprise.

“Aren’t you going?” Harry asked her. “I thought for sure you’d gotten Snape to give you permission.”

“Believe me, I tried, but he said no,” said Violet sadly. “You didn’t get Professor McGonagall to sign your form either?”

Harry shook his head.

“I think she might’ve wanted to, but . . . with everyone so worried about Sirius Black, it’s like they don’t want to let us out of their sight.”

“I know what you mean,” Violet said. “Have you got any plans for the day?”

Harry shook his head again, looking wistful.

“Honestly I might just mope around the castle till Ron and Hermione get back. Then I’ll mope around the common room and try to look happy for them at the same time.”

“Oh, can I join you?” Violet said with exaggerated excitement. “I could go for a good mope as well today.”

“Sure, come on then,” said Harry, grinning. He offered his arm, which Violet took, and the two of them set off together looking for someplace to bask in their mutual misery. Harry suggested the library might be a safe but, but halfway there the novelty of the joke wore off and both of their moods sank once more. Neither of them felt like working, and they couldn’t talk in the library without being soundly shushed by the ancient librarian, Madam Pince.

“I haven’t seen Hedwig in a while,” Harry muttered as the pair of them turned back around and started walking back the way they’d come. “She doesn’t bring me any letters now that we’re at Hogwarts — everyone who wants to talk to me is already here. D’you want to come up to the Owlery with me?”

“Can we just go there?” Violet asked. “I mean, I suppose of course anyone could, if they wanted to send a letter home or something. I’ve just never been before.”

“It’s really peaceful up there,” said Harry with a small smile. “Smelly, but pretty nice otherwise. It’s as good a place for a mope as anywhere else.”

Violet took Harry’s hand in her own and gave it a small squeeze. She’d missed this, honestly — just the two of them, able to talk freely and lean on one another without anyone else around. Violet loved her friends and was very grateful for them, but it would always be Harry that she relied on most.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, let’s go, then.”

Harry led them up a staircase, the two of them chatting quietly and sharing little stories about their classes as they meandered down the empty corridors. Violet was just beginning to tell Harry about her confrontation with Pansy and her fear of the dead rat when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, “Harry?”

The two of them doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

Immediately Violet’s stomach tightened with anxiety as she remembered the strange conversation with Snape the night before, and the warnings he had given her previously.

“What are you two doing?” said Lupin. “Where are you friends?”

“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

“Ah,” said Lupin. He considered the pair of them for a moment. “Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” said Harry. He took a step toward the door to the office, but Violet held fast. She didn’t want to go inside. She didn’t want them to be alone with Professor Lupin.

“It’s a water demon,” she told him, glancing at Professor Lupin. “I’ve read about them in one of my monster books.”

“What’s it look like?” Harry asked, taking another step into the office, giving Violet no choice but to follow him or be left alone in the chilly corridor. She, too, followed Lupin into his office, and was relieved when the door stayed open behind them.

In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers. It was much smaller than Violet expected it to be.

“Very good, Violet,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficult with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, but very brittle.”

The grindylow bared its teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

“Cup of tea?” Lupin said, looking around for his kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.”

“Alright,” said Harry awkwardly, before Violet could even open her mouth to protest.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. “I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay you’ve had enough of tea leaves, Harry?”

Harry and Violet looked at him. Lupin’s eyes were twinkling.

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked.

“Professor McGonagall told me,” said Harry, passing each of a pair of chipped, mismatched mugs of tea. “You’re not worried, are you?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Professor McGonagall said the Divination teacher predicts the death of a student every year,” Violet added, blowing on her tea. “Just because we’ve been seeing dogs everywhere doesn’t mean either of us is going to kick it.”

“Seeing dogs?” said Professor Lupin, a tad more sharply than was casual. “What do you mean by that, Violet?”

“Well . . .” Violet glanced at Harry, giving him the opportunity to stop her; he didn’t look happy, but he didn’t speak up against her either, so Violet pressed on. “Before Harry saw the Grim in his tea leaves, we both saw a big black dog on the street when were ru- I mean, when were were leaving our aunt and uncle’s. Then there was a book at Flourish and Blotts with a black dog of the cover, too.”

“Have you seen any more large black dogs in real life?” Lupin asked over the rim of his mug. Violet and Harry shook their heads, and he looked between them thoughtfully. “Mm . . . most seasoned wizards and witches go mad with fear the mere mention of the Grim, yet the pair of you believe you’ve run into it not once but  _ three _ times and here you are, calm as can be.”

“I s’pose we’re not very seasoned, then,” said Violet, a bit more snippily than she meant to. Lupin’s smile didn’t falter, however.

“On the contrary, Violet,” he said carefully. “I think you two have a great deal of sense in your heads. Sense is far more valuable than seasoning, in my opinion.”

Violet looked quickly away from Lupin’s eyes. They made something itch in the back of her head, like a memory she didn’t even remember having it, much less what it was, and Violet didn’t care for that. She took a long sip of her tea.

“Is there anything else worrying you?” Lupin said, looking between Harry and Violet.

“No,” said Harry. He took a sip of his tea, then down down his mug on Lupin’s desk. “Yes, actually — You know the day we fought the boggart?”

“Yes,” said Lupin slowly.

“Why didn’t you let us fight it?” said Harry abruptly. Violet, who had also been wondering about that, put down her tea and looked at Lupin as well.

Professor Lupin raised his eyebrows.

“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he said, sounding surprised.

Violet, who had expected Lupin to deny that he had done anything such thing, was taken aback.

“Why?” she asked.

“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that if the boggart were to face either of you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort.”

Violet and Harry looked at Lupin in shock. Not only was this the last answer they’d expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort’s name. The only person the twins had ever heard say the same out loud (apart from each other) was Professor Dumbledore.

“Clearly I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning as he looked between them. “But I didn’t think it was a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined that people would panic.”

“I didn’t think of Voldemort,” said Violet honestly. “I thought — I thought about the Basilisk, from last year.”

Lupin’s expression turned slightly sad.

“Ah, yes,” he said quietly. “Professor McGonagall told me about that as well . . . That must have been very difficult for you, Violet.”

“I don’t remember much of anything,” Violet said with a shrug. “At least, I don’t think I do . . . when I was preparing to face the boggart, I’m not sure if it was a memory or just something I made up.”

“I didn’t think of Voldemort, either,” said Harry, and they both looked at him. “Well, I did at first but then I — I remembered those dementors.”

“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Well, well . . . I’m impressed.” He smiled slightly at the looks of surprise on Harry and Violet’s faces. “That suggests what what you fear most of all is — fear. Very wise, Harry. You two have surprised me again, and in the course of a single conversation.”

Neither of them knew what to say. Violet drank some more tea.

“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.

“Well . . . yeah,” said Harry, and Violet nodded as well. “Professor Lupin, about the dementors —”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” called Lupin.

The door, which wasn’t fully shut in the first place, swung open, and in came Professor Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry and Violet, his black eyes narrowing.

“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling. “Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Violet, Harry, and Professor Lupin.

“I was just showing the twins my grindylow,” said Lupin pleasantly, pointing at the tank.

“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it. “You should drink that directly, Lupin.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.

“I made an entire cauldronful last night,” Snape continued. “If you need more.”

“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus.”

“Not at all,” said Snape. He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

Violet was staring at the goblet. The smoke rising from it was pale blue in colour, and even from where she was sitting she could smell the bitter, acrid scent wafting off of it. She knew exactly what that potion was; she’d helped brew it the night before, hadn’t she? Professor Snape said it was for Defense Against the Dark Arts class, of course, but if Lupin was meant to  _ drink _ it . . .

She looked quickly up at Professor Lupin, who was smiling.

“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said. “I never have been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

Violet’s insides ran cold. She stared at Lupin’s smiling face, and the smoking goblet in his hand, which he drank with such nonchalance right in front of them.

“Why — ?” Harry began, very likely not even understanding what was going on. Lupin looked at him and answered the unfinished question.

“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said simply. “This potion is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many wizards who are up to making it.”

Professor Lupin took another sip of the Wolfsbane potion. Violet felt as though she were rooted to the spot.

“Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” Harry blurted out of nowhere.

“Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as he took another gulp of the potion.

“Some people reckon —” Harry hesitated to glance at Violet, then pressed on, “some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.”

Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.

“Disgusting,” he said. “Well, children, I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you both at the feast later.”

“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty mug. He rose to his feet, but Violet remained frozen in her chair, staring at Professor Lupin while her heart hammered wildly in her chest. She jumped when Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. “Vi? You coming?”

“Y-yeah,” Violet said. The chair scraped noisily against the floor as she stood up, grabbing immediately for Harry’s hand again. “Sorry. Er, good day, sir,” she said back to Professor Lupin.

“Good day to you as well, Violet,” he said with a smile, watching her now as well.

The empty goblet was still smoking.

 

If asked why, Violet wouldn’t have been able to say what stopped her from telling Harry that Professor Lupin was a werewolf.

It was certainly something he’d be interested to know, and had a  _ right _ to know, as Lupin was their teacher and meant to be in charge of their safety. Yet even as they spent the rest of the day together, visiting Hedwig in the Owlery and wandering around the castle before getting too cold and parting ways, Violet never voiced her discovery out loud.

It was clearly a secret. Professor Lupin had only said he was feeling “off-colour” when Harry asked what the potion was for. No announcement had been made at the beginning of the year when Lupin was appointed and Dumbledore, who had once threatened extremely painful death to anyone setting foot in a particular corridor, surely wouldn’t leave out such a detail unless he meant to. But if it was a secret, then why had Professor Snape let her help brew the Wolfsbane Potion? Why had he outright  _ told _ her what it was, even if he wasn’t allowed to? And could that have been the reason behind all of Snape’s cryptic warnings and open hostility toward Professor Lupin?

Violet had read about werewolves. Not in the  _ Monster Book of Monsters _ , but in a copy of a book she’d bought in her very first year at Hogwarts, which she frantically referred back to once she’d returned to the Slytherin common room. Violet huddled herself in bed with the curtains drawn and books piled around her, and began to read everything that she could find on the subject of werewolves:

 

WEREWOLF

_ M.O.M. Classification: XXXXX _

 

‘ _ The Werewolf is found worldwide, thought it is believed to have originated in Northern Europe. Humans turn into Werewolves only when bitten. There is no known cure, though recent development in potion-making have to a great extent alleviated the worst symptoms. Once a month, at the full moon, the otherwise sane and normal wizard of Muggle afflicted transforms into a murderous beast. Almost uniquely among fantastic creatures, the werewolf actively seeks humans in preference to any other kind of prey.’ _

 

This brief, chilling description was followed by a footnote that Violet rather felt ought to have been included in the main article:

 

_ ‘This classification refers, of course, to the werewolf in its transformed state. When there is no full moon, the werewolf is as harmless as any other human. For a heartrending account of one wizard’s battle with lycanthropy, see the classic ‘ _ Hairy Snout, Human Heart,’ _ by an anonymous author (Whizz Hard Books, 1975). _

 

Violet made a note of the recommended book and went back to her reading. Most of the information she found told her the same information in many more words; werewolves could only transform on the night of the full moon and were otherwise capable of living as perfectly normal, docile human beings — assuming they were  _ allowed _ to. Several other books, including  _ History of Magic _ , made reference to the discrimination werewolves faced in wizarding society; the Ministry of Magic had a particularly shady track record on the matter of werewolf relations. At one point, the Werewolf Registry and Werewolf Capture Division were both in the ‘Beast Division,’ while at the same time an office for Werewolf Support Services was offered in the ‘Beings Division.’

It didn’t surprise Violet in the least that no one had presented themselves to either division for fear of locked up, detained, or having their condition publicly known.

Perhaps that was why the students hadn’t been told about what Professor Lupin really was. Although now that she knew, many things started to make more sense to Violet: Professor Snape’s warnings, for one thing. He’d given her hints of what to look out for, and warned her that there was something strange about Professor Lupin. Snape had been trying to protect her, Violet realized, and felt a sudden surge of warmth for her Head of House. As cold and difficult as he was at the best of times — and as cruel and miserable as he could be at his worst — Violet truly felt that he had the best interest of his students at heart.

Lupin’s shabby clothes and sickly pallor when they had first met him on the train were also easily explained now; it was very likely he’d not been able to earn a lot of money for himself if other people knew about his condition. Coming to teach at Hogwarts must have been a great opportunity for him. It wasn’t one she planned to take from him any time soon.

Violet was so absorbed in her reading and personal note taking that she didn’t even notice as the hours slipped by. She was nestled into her pillow, propped at the head of her bed with a book open in her lap when the door to the dormitory flew open. A moment later Violet’s curtains were ripped back and Tracey’s shiny, grinning face was looking down at her.

“There you are!” Tracey cried loudly. “We’ve been looking all over for you! Harry said he hadn’t seen you since this morning — what on earth have you been up to?”

“Er — reading,” Violet said, quickly covering up her notes with her mother’s old copy of  _ Confronting the Faceless _ . “You’re already back?”

“It’s nearly dusk!” Tracey told her, arms raised dramatically in the air; she was still wearing her cloak and gloves, both of which still had flecks of snow on them. “The feast’ll be starting soon, Vi! Come on, up you get!”

Cassius was waiting for them at the top of the stairs and grinned broadly at Violet before pressing a bulging paper bag into her hands.

“Told you we’d get you loads of sweets,” he said as Violet’s eyes grew wide. The bag was packed with more candy than she had ever seen in her life and right on top was a full package of six separate flavours of Sugar Quills. 

“You didn’t have to get all this,” said Violet, blushing even more furiously. “Cass, this must have been expensive . . .”

“What’s a couple Galleons to get you to smile?” he teased. All three of them collapsed into giggles that continued all the way out of the dungeons.

The Great Hall had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.

The food was delicious; even Cass and Tracey, who were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, managed second helpings of everything. Violet kept glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked cheerful as he ever did; he was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick. Violet moved her eyes across the table, to the place where Professor Snape sat. She was startled to find him staring right back at her. Violet blinked, and when she looked back Professor Snape was deep in conversation with Professor McGonagall. Had she imagined it?

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great success with a reenactment of his own botched beheading.

It had been such a pleasant evening that Violet’s good mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall, “The dementors send their love, Potter!”

Harry, Tracey, and Cassius returned to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons and practically fell into their beds, full of sweets and good food, ready to drift away into deep and sound sleep.

Unfortunately, that was not going to happen.


	9. Flight of the Fat Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet had barely started to drift off when there was a loud banging on the dormitory door. A moment later it was opened and the tense, unsmiling face of Zoe Acrington looked in on them all.

“Out of bed, please, everyone,” she said loudly, holding the door open wider so the light from the common room streamed in. “Gather in the common room, quickly and quietly.”

“What’s going on?” asked Suzanna Runcorn, looking very sleepy. But Zoe didn’t answer; she stood and waited for all the girls to get out of bed and form a jumbled line by the door before leading them up the short staircase. The common room was packed. All of Slytherin House, from first years to seventh years were standing awkwardly in their pajamas, looking around and muttering to see if anyone knew what was going on.

“Quiet, please,” called a deep male voice, and the crowd turned toward the door. An older boy was standing with his hand in the air, looking grimly out at them — Violet could see the glint of a shiny prefect badge pinned to the front of his nightshirt.

“Professor Dumbledore has summoned everyone back to the Great Hall,” the boy said imperiously, “I expect everyone to follow me, quietly, out of the dungeons. Remain in groups with your year, listen to your prefects. Is everyone here? Good. Follow.”

With only a small amount of grumbling, all of the Slytherins moved together through the narrow wooden door and made their way up the corridor that lead back to the entrance hall. As they emerged from the dungeons, Violet saw the Hufflepuffs coming up from the other side of the hall and the Ravenclaws coming down the steps of the grand staircase from their tower common room. The massive doors to the Great Hall were open wide and the Gryffindors, along with what looked like most of the teachers, were already gathered and waiting. Professor Dumbledore was among them, smiling serenely.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all the doors into the hall. “I’m afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately,” he added to Percy, who was looking immensely proud and important. “Send word with one of the ghosts.”

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing . . .”

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what had just happened. Violet, disregarding the prefect’s orders that everyone remain with their Houses, pushed through the crowd to find Harry.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, seizing his arm.

“Sirius Black got into the castle,” he told her grimly. Violet felt all the air rush from her lungs.

“ _ How _ ?”

“No one knows,” Ron said, looking very white as he appeared next to Harry. “But he tried to get into Gryffindor Tower — when the Fat Lady wouldn’t let him in he slashed her to ribbons and ran off.”

“Everyone into the sleeping bags!” shouted Percy, nearer than Violet would have liked. “Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!”

“Are you okay?” Violet asked. She was still holding onto Harry’s arm and didn’t plan to let go even if Percy came over to pry her off himself. Harry did look shaken but otherwise unharmed. He gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Vi — are  _ you _ ?”

Violet nodded jerkily. She could see prefects moving through the crowd, telling people off and shooing them back to their own Houses.

“I’ll be over here, alright?” said Harry, drawing her gaze back to him as though sensing her worry. “Ron and Hermione are with me, I’ll be fine. Looks like Tracey and Warrington are waiting for you, too.”

Over her shoulder, Violet saw her friends standing off to the side, each with a sleeping bag in their arms and an empty one bunched up at their feet. She sighed and let go of Harry’s arm.

“We’ll be okay, right?”

“Right. We’ll be okay.”

Sharing a quick smile with her brother, Violet hurried back across the aisle to join Cass and Tracey. They all climbed inside their sleeping bags and huddled together on the floor. All around them, people were asking one another the same question: “ _ How did he get in _ ?”

“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw a few feet away. “Just appear out of thin air, you know.”

“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

“He could’ve flown in,” suggested one of the younger Slytherin boys.

“Rubbish,” muttered Cassius, quietly enough that only Tracey and Violet could hear him. “The castle’s protected by more than just walls, you can’t just pop in whenever you bloody well feel like it. And good luck coming up with a disguise to fool those dementors. We saw them earlier, Violet,” he said, lowering his voice even further. “Coming in and out of Hogsmeade — they’re guarding every entrance to the castle, there’s no way Black just walked in.”

“But there’s loads of secret passages, aren’t there?” said Tracey. “I mean, the way Filch moves around I reckon there has to be, and all the stories we’ve heard . . .”

“The lights are going out now!” Percy shouted. “I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!”

The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Violet felt as though she were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall to check that everything was quiet. Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Violet watched him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. Percy was only a short distance away from Violet, Cass, and Tracey, who quickly pretending to be asleep as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer.

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a whisper.

“No. All well here?”

“Everything under control, sir.”

“Good. There’s no point in moving them all now. I’ve found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in tomorrow.”

“And the Fat Lady, sir?”

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed, but once she’s calmed down I’ll have Mr. Filch restore her.”

Violet heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

“Headmaster?” It was Professor Snape. Violet kept quite still, listening hard. “The whole of the third floor has been searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either.”

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawny’s room? The Owlery?”

“All searched . . .”

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to linger.”

“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?” asked Snape.

Violet stopped breathing, holding her breath to hear better.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next.”

Violet opened one eye a fraction and squinted up to where they stood; Percy’s back was to her, but she could see Dumbledore’s face, calm as ever, and Snape’s profile, which looked angry.

“You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” said Professor Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.”

“I do, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and there was something like a warning in his voice as he looked at Snape over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed —”

“I do not believe a single person inside the castle would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore, and his tone made it so clear that the subject was closed that Professor Snape did not reply. “I must go down to the dementors,” said Dumbledore. “I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Percy.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster.”

Percy’s shoulders went rather rigid. Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly. Professor Snape stood for a moment, watching the headmaster with an expression of deep resentment on his face. Violet saw his head start to turn in her direction and quickly slammed her eye shut, forcing herself to resume breathing as slowly as possible. After a long moment, Snape’s footsteps trailed away out of the hall. Violet opened her eyes fully and glanced at her friends; Tracey was sound asleep and drooling, but Cass’s eyes were open as well, reflecting the starry ceiling. 

“What was that about?” Cass mouthed.

 

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. The theories about how he had entered the castle became wilder and wilder; one of the Hufflepuff girls had started telling anyone who’d listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub.

The Gryffindors were all complaining about the new portrait that had been set to guard their common room while the Fat Lady was being restored. The new portrait was apparently fond of challenging people to duels, when he wasn’t coming up with ridiculously complicated passwords and changing them several times a day. All that nonsense had made Harry very irritable as of late, for which Violet didn’t blame him one bit.

The two of them were now being closely watched. Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with them. Violet was certain that Mrs. Weasley had written to her older sons and ordered them to look after her and her brother, and she rather believed that Harry had gotten the short end of the stick — while she had Fred and George escorting her between classes again and making sure she stayed out of trouble, Harry had Percy tailing him everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summoned both Harry and Violet into her office, with such a somber expression on her face the two of them thought someone must have died.

“There’s no point in hiding it from you any longer, children,” she said in a very serious voice. “I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black —”

“We knew he’s after us,” said Harry wearily. “We heard Ron’s dad telling his mum.”

“Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic,” Violet added helpfully.

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She stared between them for a long moment or two, then said, “I see! Well, in that case, Mr. Potter, you’ll understand why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only your team members, it’s very exposed —”

“He’s not out there alone!” Violet challenged boldly. “Most of the time I’m out in the stands watching him practice —”

“Both of you, then, out there unprotected, Miss Potter, I’m afraid that’s even worse —!”

“We’ve got our first match on Saturday!” said Harry, outraged. “I’ve got to train, Professor!”

Professor McGonagall considered the pair of them intently. Violet knew that she was deeply invested in the Gryffindor team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d suggested Harry as Seeker in the first place. Harry was watching her and waiting, holding his breath.

“Hmm . . .” Professor McGonagall stood up and stared out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain. “Well . . . goodness knows, I’d like to see us win the Cup at last . . . but all the same, Potter, I’d be happier if a teacher were present. I’ll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions. And Po-  _ Miss _ Potter — I would prefer as well if you no longer attended these training sessions. I think it unwise for the pair of you to spend too much time in the same place at present.”

Violet thought that was the biggest load of rubbish she’d ever heard, but didn’t dare question McGonagall on it.

She and Harry were stronger together. They always had been. He protected her and she was there to get him out of a jam whenever she was needed. If Black came for one of them without the other there . . .

 

The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch match drew nearer. The lake outside the great glass wall in the Slytherin common room was pitch black even in the middle of the day, and rain pounded heavily on the windows of all the classrooms above ground. Walking across the grounds to classes like Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures was extremely hazardous — the lawns were more mud than grass, and Violet had already slipped once and ended up with muck all over her skirt. Professor Sprout had been kind enough to clean her up before class started, but it was still humiliating.

Despite the foul weather, the Gryffindor Quidditch team was still out practicing almost every other day. Filch had a meltdown over all the mud being tracked in through the entrance hall, leading to Gryffindor actually losing House points for “befouling the castle.”

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Violet when it was announced that the Slytherin team had recused themselves from the upcoming match. Their excuse, however, was laughable.

“There’s nothing wrong with his sodding arm,” Cassius grumbled over their evening homework, glaring darkly across the common room where Malfoy, simpering dramatically, was letting a misty-eyed Pansy examine the faint scar left on his forearm from his run-in with the hippogriff’s talons. “He’s just rubbish and Flint knows it. Malfoy couldn’t see the Snitch when it was right on top of his head last year, and that was in broad daylight. With this rain he’s got no chance.”

“So is the match forfeit then?” Violet asked him. She hadn’t been able to speak to Harry for days, otherwise he would have been her prime source of Quidditch information. Cassius shook his head.

“Hufflepuff’s filling in. And I don’t envy Oliver Wood — he’s been training his team again our brutes, but Diggory’s got a different style entirely.”

“Diggory?”

“Cedric Diggory,” said Tracey at once. “He’s the Hufflepuff Seeker,  _ and _ captain of their team.” She said all of this very quickly, and both Violet and Cass looked at her.

“How d’you know that?” Cass asked. “I thought you couldn’t be arsed to keep up with Quidditch.”

Maybe Violet was imagining it, but Tracey’s cheeks seemed a little darker than usual. She started fiddling with the feathered tip of her quill.

“I can’t be,” she said casually. “I happened to chat with him the other day, that’s all.”

“With  _ Diggory _ ?” said Cassius suspiciously. “He’s a fifth year, what were you doing chatting with him?”

“ _ You’re _ a fifth year, too,” Tracey pointed out, “I — I ran into him, alright? Outside the library. I dropped some of my books and h-he helped me pick them up.”

Cass’s expression was incredulous, but Violet was too busy trying not to smile at the way Tracey was obviously flushing.

“That was very nice of him,” Violet said, after a few moments of silence. Tracey immediately lit up.

“Oh, yes, he’s very nice! I’d never really spoken to him before, but I’ve seen him around and I suppose he’s seen me too because he knew my name and everything. He actually carried my books a ways, too, even though we were going in different directions, which I thought was very sweet of him, because he didn’t didn’t have to — they weren’t very heavy and I told them I could carry everything myself but he insisted, which was so sweet of him, and he said he’d see me around later and I said I’d see him too and —”

Tracey pressed her lips together suddenly, ending her rambling with a soft gasp. The tip of her quill had become a ragged, frazzled mess from the way she’d been picking at it, and there was no hiding now exactly how hard she was blushing. 

Cassius was shaking his head.

“So how exactly did Quidditch get brought into it, then?”

“He had one of those badges for the famous teams pinned to his robes,” Tracey said defensively. “I asked about it and he told me he played too.”

“And now you’re in love with him,” said Cass flatly. Tracey sputtered.

“I am  _ not _ in love with him!” she said, loudly enough that Malfoy and his little audience around the fire looked over at them. Cass was grinning but Tracey, fuming, hunched lower in her seat in humiliation. “It was just a chat,” she told Cassius, glaring at him. “I don’t see why you have to be so cruel about it.”

“ _ Cruel? _ ” Cass said. He looked bewildered. “I’m not being  _ cruel _ , Tracey, I was only teasing —”

“Well maybe some people don’t like being teased!” Tracey snapped. She grabbed her books and parchment from the table and stuffed them roughly into her bag, before standing and stomping off toward the girl’s dormitory without another word. Violet and Cassius stared after her, stunned.

“What in Merlin’s name was that about?” Cass wondered aloud, looking to Violet with wide eyes. Violet, who had never seen Tracey in such a mood in all the years they’d known each other, could only shrug.

 

For the next few days, Tracey was decidedly chilly toward Cassius. Her feelings had obviously been hurt, but whatever the problem was she wasn’t telling anyone — not even Violet. It stung, to be shut out from helping a friend who was obviously hurting, but Violet was smart enough to realize that it was a taste of her own medicine. How many times had she kept secrets from Tracey, too? 

The day before the first Quidditch match, the winds reached howling point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit. As Harry’s mood grew visibly darker with each peal of thunder, the Slytherin team was looking very smug indeed, and none more so than Malfoy.

“Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!” he sighed as the gale outside pounded the windows.

Violet had half a mind to do Malfoy’s arm a  _ proper _ injury if he kept up with this schtick for much longer. Pansy Parkinson was eating it up; she fawned over Malfoy, passing him things that were ever so slightly out of reach, hanging on to him during evenings in the common room and telling off anyone who dared roll their eyes at Malfoy’s display of patheticism.

It was just about too much to bear when Pansy made a show of holding open the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for Malfoy, insisting that his condition was still too delicate to turn the handle himself.

Violet’s disgust quickly evaporated into shock, however, when she stepped into the classroom herself. Instead of a shabby, smiling form of Professor Lupin greeting them from the front of the class there was instead the thin, black-clad, unmistakable back of Professor Snape facing them as he was in the process of erasing half the contents of the blackboard. Snape did not greet them as they entered and found their seats.

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” asked Parvati Patil, as the Gryffindors were next to file into the room.

“Professor Lupin is indisposed with illness today,” Snape said without turning around. Using a wet rag, he made short work of the well-drawn diagram of a funny little one-legged creature that Professor Lupin had no doubt left there for today’s lesson.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked a sandy-haired boy that Violet had only recently learned was called Seamus Finnegan.

“I doubt his condition will be fatal,” said Snape, demolishing a bulleted list written in chalk. He finally turned around to face the class, eyes sweeping coldly across them all. “Sit down, all of you, and be quiet. There will be none of the usual nonsense of chattering that is presumably encouraged in this classroom — as I am your instructor today, you will behave as expected in my class. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “yes, Professor Snape,” grumbled around the room. Snape gave them all one last glare before seating himself behind Professor Lupin’s desk and starting roll call. As he went down the list, Tracey and Violet exchanged miserable looks between one another. Snape was the strictest teacher they had, aside from Professor McGonagall, and even she sometimes allowed them a bit of merriment. Lessons under Professor Snape were much like the current weather outside — gloomy, relentless, and unlikely to allow for a break of sunshine. 

“Parkinson?”

“Present, sir.”

“Patil?”

“Here, sir.”

“Potter?”

Violet, who knew that Harry’s name came before hers on the alphabetized list, waited to hear him answer. When he did not, she took a quick glance around the classroom.

“ _ Mr. Potter? _ ” Snape said again, louder this time, but still there was no response. The seat next to Ron was empty; Harry wasn’t there.

Violet locked eyes with Ron, her expression questioning, but Ron only shook his head and shrugged back at her. From the front of the classroom, Professor Snape let out an audible, dismissive scoff.

“Typical . . .  _ Miss _ Potter?”

“Here, sir,” Violet said at once, raising her hand slightly. Snape barely glanced at her as he scratched a check on his paper.

“Weasley?”

“Here,” Ron muttered. Professor Snape looked up at him, one thick brow raised.

“What was that?”

“Here,  _ sir _ ,” said Ron again. His ears had gone pink and the contempt was plain on his face, but Snape seemed at least satisfied with the response.

“Zabini?”

“Sir,” said Blaise from the back row, lazily raising his hand. Professor Snape checked him off, and at last pushed the list aside. He raised his head to look out at them all, black eyes narrowed as he surveyed the rows of sullen students staring back at him. His eyes wandered the room as well, from the shuttered windows to the framed diagrams on the walls, the bookshelves, the rafters in the high ceiling from which hung the chandelier as well as the posed skeleton of some ancient, winged beast. Violet knew as well as everyone else how aggressively Professor Snape had pursued the Defense Against the Dark Arts job over the years; to be sitting in this classroom was likely as much of a treat for him as it was for the rest of them — at least since Professor Lupin had taken over.

“I could not help but notice,” Snape began softly, “that your professor did not leave behind a lesson plan for today’s class, nor any record of the subjects you have covered previously.”

“But sir —” said a familiar voice from the front row, and it took nearly all of Violet’s willpower not to cringe down into her seat as Hermione piped up, “— the notes you cleaned off the board were —”

“Were inaccurate and in the way, Miss Granger. Do not interrupt me again,” Snape said. “As there’s no telling how far behind you all are, today’s lesson will be covering —”

There was a loud scrape from the back of the room as the door was yanked open.

“Sorry, I’m late, Professor Lupin, I —”

Violet whirled around at the sound of Harry’s voice. He was standing frozen in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the teacher’s desk where Professor Snape now sat.

“The lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down.”

But Harry didn’t move.

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” he said loudly.

“He says he is feeling too ill to teach today,” said Professor Snape with an unpleasant smile. “I believe I told you to sit down?”

But Harry stayed where he was. Violet, too far away to hiss at him for being an idiot, tried desperately to catch Harry’s eye and warn him off that way. But Harry wasn’t looking at anything besides Professor Snape.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Snape’s black eyes glittered.

“Nothing life-threatening,” he said, looking as though he wished it were. “Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you to down again, it will be fifty.”

Harry walked slowly past Violed to his seat beside Ron and sat down. Snape looked around at the class.

“As I was saying before Mr. Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far —”

“Please, sir, we’ve done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows,” said Hermione quickly, “and we’re just about to start —”

“Be quiet,” said Snape coldly. “I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin’s lack of organization.”

“He’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve ever had,” said Dean Thomas boldly, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class. Snape looked more menacing than ever.

“You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing you — I would expect first years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall discuss —”

He flicked through the textbook, to the very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t covered.

“— werewolves,” said Professor Snape.

Violet’s head snapped up.

“But, sir,” said Hermione, seemingly unable to restrain herself, “we’re not supposed to do werewolves yet, we’re due to start hinkypunks —”

“Miss Granger,” said Snape in a voice of deadly calm, “I was under the impression that I am teaching this lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page 394.” He glanced around again. “ _ All _ of you!  _ Now _ !”

With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen muttering, the class opened their books.

“Which if you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?” said Professor Snape.

Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, shot straight into the air.

“Anyone?” Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted smile was back. “Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn’t even taught you the basic distinction between —”

“We told you,” said Parvati Patil suddenly, “we haven’t got as far as werewolves yet, we’re still on —”

“ _ Silence _ !” snarled Snape. “Well, well, well, I never thought I’d meet a third-year class who wouldn’t even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind  you all are . . .”

Violet sat rigid in her seat. She knew  _ exactly _ what the differences between werewolves and true wolves were, and after all the reading she’d done she was confident that she could rattle off a list of ways to identify werewolves in everyday life — but it would be a cold day in hell before she raised her hand and said such things out loud, sitting in this classroom, with their usual teacher being what he was.

What was Snape playing at? Was he  _ trying _ to expose Professor Lupin?

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, whose hand was still in the air, “the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf —”

“That is the third time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”

Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears. From the behind her Violet could hear Malfoy tittering, but it was a mark of how much the Gryffindors loathed Professor Snape that they were all glaring at him — every one of them had likely called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and Ron, who called Hermione a know-it-all at least twice a week, said loudly, “You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want to be told?”

The class knew instantly he’d gone too far. Snape advanced on Ron slowly, and though he was on the other side of the room Violet couldn’t help but recoil in her seat; the terrifying sight of Professor Snape moving threatening toward Professor Quirrell in the forest had never quite been shaken from her mind.

“Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very close to Ron’s. “And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.”

No one made a sound throughout the rest of the lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from the textbook, while Professor Snape prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had been doing with Professor Lupin.

“Very poorly explained . . . That is incorrect, the kappa is more commonly found in Mongolia . . . Professor Lupin gave this eight out ten? I wouldn’t have given it three . . .”

Quietly, when Professor Snape was on the other side of the room giving Neville a hard time, Violet reached into her bag under the pretense of finding more parchment and took a quick glance at her astronomy chart. It had information on the positions of all the stars in the sky, the visibility of the planets and various constellations and, of course, the phases of the moon. That was what Violet was looking for, and it didn’t surprise her one bit to find that last night’s moon had been a full one. That definitively explained Professor Lupin’s ‘illness.’

Violet managed to straighten up just as Professor Snape was coming back around the front of the room.

When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.

“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention.”

Violet left the room with a sick feeling in her stomach. She could hear the rest of the class muttering around her, complaining about Snape and asking if substitutes were even  _ allowed _ to assign homework, but it all faded into a senseless murmur around her. Violet’s heart was beating very quickly, despite not doing any sort of exercise. A terrible anxiety was gnawing at her insides.

With as much emphasis as Professor Snape had put on identifying werewolves, there was no doubt in her mind that someone would figure out Professor Lupin’s secret. And then what? Would he be fired? Would he get in trouble for keeping his condition to himself? If someone like  _ Malfoy _ was to find out the truth and go spreading it around . . .

Violet didn’t understand why Professor Snape was doing this. It was obvious to all that he had nothing but ill will toward Professor Lupin, and Snape’s bad side was a place no one in their right mind wanted to be — but why go through all this trouble to humiliate a man that, as far as Violet or anyone else had seen, was perfectly polite toward him, and an excellent teacher to boot? Could it be that Snape hated werewolves  _ that _ much? Or, as Violet had quietly suspected from the beginning, was there something more personal to his hatred . . .

 

Professor Lupin wasn’t at breakfast the next morning.

Every time the door to the Great Hall opened Violet would look around, hoping to see his peaky, smiling face, but there was no sign of him as the meal went on. Professor Snape was absent as well, but that was hardly unusual. Violet could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him at the staff table in the mornings. It was even less strange considering how late he had stayed up with during last night’s private lesson; she’d misheard his instructions on when to add the motherwort and ended up spoiling the whole batch, choking herself on thick purple smoke in the process. Violet’s mistake had sent Snape into a foul mood and he had forced her to start over from scratch. Any plans she’d had to ask him about his grudge against Professor Lupin went up in smoke, along with her cauldron and her confidence.

Today was Harry’s first Quidditch match of the season, and the sound of wind and rain slamming against the windows had Violet even more on edge than usual. Every time a lightning strike would crackle through the sky, all she could imagine was it hitting Harry, frying him in his soaking robes and sending him plummeting to his death on the field below. Violet was a wreck as she joined the rest of the school in descending on the Quidditch pitch. Such was the popularity of the sport that everyone turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran down the lawns toward the field, heads bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being whipped out of their hands as they went. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius made their way up the stands with the Gryffindors as usual, sticking close to Ron and Hermione.

The wind was so strong that the teams staggered sideways as they walked out onto the field. All around her Violet could see people with their mouths open, waving their arms in the air, but whatever noise they were making was whipped away as soon as it left their lips. Rain splattered down on them all in fat, icy droplets, and the two teams would have been impossible to see if not for the bright colours of their Quidditch robes. Violet struggled to pick out her brother among them. She did, however, make a note of the Hufflepuff captain, Cedric Diggory. He was quite tall and broad-shouldered for a Seeker, but in this weather that was bound to be an advantage rather than a hindrance; the wind would have a harder time blowing him off-course. She noted, as well, that Tracey’s cheering became more enthusiastic when Diggory stepped onto the field.

With seemingly no warning, the players shot unsteadily into the air, and the game began.

Within five minutes, the storm had worsened to the point that Cassius said it should be cancelled, and that was truly saying something. Everyone in the stands was soaked through the skin, and it was hard to imagine how the players could see  _ anything _ going on around them with how thick the rain was coming down. Twice, there had been near collisions, and the sky was only getting darker. Tracey had brought her binoculars again, but quickly tucked them away after deciding they would be useless in such awful weather.

With the first flash of lightning came the shrill, distant sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle, and both teams came splashing down into the mud. Hermione, barely recognizable with her frizzy hair plastered to her scalp, pushed passed Violet to race down the stands.

“What’s she after?” Violet shouted to Ron, who was standing right next to her. The point of his long nose was bright red from the cold, and his teeth chattered visibly as he shrugged.

After a brief meeting on the field, the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs shot back into the turbulent air and resumed playing as best they could.

Violet could just barely see the speck that was Harry, zipping about high above the pitch in search of the tiny Golden Snitch that would end the game and put all this madness to rest. She watched him turn suddenly, and the scream that tore from her mouth was immediately carried off on the wind as a fork of lightning streaked through the sky behind him. Had he been struck?

When Harry pressed flat to his broom and streaked downward, Violet stood up in her seat, fingers clenching the roots of her soaking hair.

The stands around her went silent, tunnel-vision taking over as Violet kept her eyes locked on Harry, desperate to know whether he was flying or falling. When Diggory, the Hufflepuff Seeker, came streaking up behind him and Harry turned his broom in the same direction, urging it onward, a breath of relief released from Violet’s lungs.

But the sound around her hadn’t returned. The wind, though as strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as though someone had turned off the sound, as though Violet had suddenly suddenly deaf — what was going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over her, inside her, just as she became aware of something moving on the field below . . .

A strong hand gripped the drenched fabric of Violet’s sleeve and she finally tore her eyes away from Harry; Tracey was holding onto her with one hand and pointing down onto the pitch with the other, eyes wide with terror. Violet’s hair whipped into her face as she turned to look down.

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces pointed upward, were floating beneath the Quidditch players, spreading over the field, looking upward into the stands where the cheering had turned to screams. It was as though freezing water were rising in Violet’s chest, cutting at her insides. And then she heard again . . . Someone was screaming inside her head . . . a woman . . .

“ _ Not Harry, not Violet, please not my children!” _

_ “Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside, now . . .” _

_ “Not them, please no, take me, kill me instead  _ — _ ” _

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Violet’s brain . . . Her eyes rolled back into her head, seeing only the black inside of her eyelids . . . The woman needed help . . . She was going to die . . . She was going to be murdered . . .

Violet’s body felt weightless.

_ “Not my children! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy . . .” _

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Violet knew no more.

 

“Never seen him so angry . . .”

“I can’t believe this, I though they weren’t allowed inside the grounds?”

“They’re  _ not _ .”

“Has she woken up yet?”

“No, she’s not even moving . . . Oh, Cass, what if she  _ never _ wakes up?”

“Don’t be silly, Madam Pomfrey will set her right.”

Silly . . .  _ you silly girl _ . . . hooded black figures . . . cold . . . screaming . . .

Violet’s eyes snapped open. She was laying in the hospital wing. Cassius and Tracey, looking as though they’d just climbed out of a swimming pool, and one of the Weasley twins, indistinguishable under the mud that spattered him from head to toe, were gathered around her bed.

“Violet!” shrieked Tracey, whose eyes were very red from crying. “You’re alive! Oh, you’re alive, I swear I thought — That dementor came right at you, it just came straight up and I thought you were  _ gone _ —”

“How are you feeling?” asked the boy who Violet now realized was George, who looked extremely white underneath the mud.

“Harry,” Violet croaked, sitting up so suddenly they all gasped. “Where’s Harry? Did he fall?”

“He’s right there,” Cass said, stepping aside so Violet could see the bed beside her, where Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were gathered around her brother. Harry’s eyes were closed.

“What happened?” Violet demanded, trying to pull the blankets off of herself, but her limbs were feeling oddly numb and unresponsive. “What  _ happened _ to him?”

“He did fall,” George said quickly, “but Dumbledore stopped him from hitting the ground. The dementors — Blimey, I’ve never seen so many in one place . . .”

“Dumbledore was really angry,” said Tracey, who Violet now realized was clutching her hand, though she couldn’t feel it at all. “We’ve never seen him like that before. He ran onto the field as Harry was falling and waved his wand and sort of, er, caught him with magic? Then he whirled his wand around at the dementors and shot all this silver stuff toward them and they left the stadium right away. He was  _ furious _ . . . they’re not supposed to come onto the grounds, and he was  _ shouting _ —”

“Everyone was so worried about Harry, no one but us even saw you go down,” said Cass, looking very shaken. “It was a mess, trying to get a teacher’s attention. I had to carry you . . .” He paused for a moment, tiny patches of pink flaring up on his pale cheeks. “McGonagall saw you first, and I thought she might pass out as well from the shock of it. Dumbledore magicked Harry onto a stretcher and McGonagall had me take you with them to the hospital wing. Since then, we’ve just been waiting around to see which of you would wake up first . . .”

“Oh,” Violet said quietly. “Oh . . .”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” George asked, peering closely at her in concern. “I mean, I don’t see how you could be after something like that, but if anyone —”

Violet didn’t hear the rest of what George said. Her limbs felt heavy and her head felt fuzzy and she still couldn’t feel where Tracey was holding her hand. She had only meant to blink, but once her eyes were shut there was no strength left in her to open them again. Violet could hear her friends calling to her from very far away as she slipped back into chilly, empty darkness.


	10. The Marauder's Map

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping both Harry and Violet in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. Neither of them argued or complained, for once, but that was more for the other’s sake than their own — Violet didn’t think Harry should leave the hospital yet and Harry didn’t think that she should, either.

What they did  _ not _ agree on, however, was what to do with the pile of splinters lying at the foot of Harry’s bed.

The remains of his shattered Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been solemnly presented to him by the other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, once it had been fished out of the Whomping Willow by Professor Flitwick. Harry was heartbroken. The broom was entirely beyond repair, yet he had stopped Madam Pomfrey from disposing of it and insisted on keeping it near for no other reason, so far as Violet could tell, than to stare sadly at it and heave an occasional sigh. Violet thought he was being dramatic. Harry thought that she was being insensitive. 

The two of them had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering them up. Hagrid sent two bouquets of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages and made Harry sneeze. Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a smile for Violet and a get-well card for Harry that she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless he kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor team visited Harry again on Sunday morning, which overlapped with Violet’s visit from all the other girls in her year (minus Pansy Parkinson) showing up with loads of little tiny paper birds that Millicent Bullstrode set to fluttering around the infirmary. Tracey and Cassius only left Violet’s bedside at night, when Madam Pomfrey shooed both them and Ron and Hermione out and shut the doors.

That was really the only time the twins got to talk to one another.

Harry had seen the dog again. The Grim, the great spectral hound, whatever it was he’d seen it in the stands during the Quidditch match, illuminated by a strike of lightning. Watching him.

He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione and didn’t plan to; Harry was worried it would get them fighting again, and Violet was inclined to agree. Ron would panic and Hermione would scoff, and Harry would be caught in the middle trying and failing to keep them both happy by not taking sides. It was a tried and tested method that had gotten him nowhere in the past, and yet he didn’t know any other way.

The fact remained, however, that the Grim had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, Harry had nearly been run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick. Was the Grim targeting Harry alone, or was it after the both of them? Violet had seen it the first time as well, in the shadows between the garage on Magnolia Crescent, but it was Harry’s tea leaves that revealed the omen, and it was Harry again who had seen it in the stands.

And then there were the dementors. Violet felt sick and humiliated just thinking about them. Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but only she and Harry collapsed every time they went near one. No one else heard echoes in their heads of their dying parents.

The twins knew who that voice belonged to now. Violet had confided in Harry about the screaming woman she had heard, and was both thrilled and deeply shaken when he said he’d head the same. They had both heard her words, and Violet heard them over and over in the night hours in the hospital wing while they lay awake, staring at the stripes of moonlight on the ceiling. When the dementors approached her, she heard the last moments of her mother’s life, her attempts to protect her children, Violet and Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s laughter before he murdered her . . .

Violet did not sleep. She would look over to find her brother dozing fitfully, face pinched in fear and anxiety even in sleep, jerking and shaking and often gasping awake. But no matter how hard Violet tried to find rest, it didn’t come. Every time she closed her eyes, instead of darkness she saw a terrible flash of green and heard, echoing endlessly in her head, the sound of her mother’s voice.

 

It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where Violet was forced to think about other things, even if she had to endure Draco Malfoy’s taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat in the Quidditch match. He had finally taken off his useless bandages, and celebrated having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom. He had tried that once with Violet, making his voice shrill and breathy as he slumped dramatically against Goyle, limp-wristed and pouting. Unfortunately for him Cassius had seen the display as well and stood up in the middle of lunch, using his age and superior height to cow Malfoy and his gang into awkward, sullen silence.

“If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I’m skiving off,” Violet heard Ron say as they headed toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch. “Check who’s in there, Hermione.”

Hermione peered around the classroom door.

“It’s okay!”

Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked as though he’d been ill. His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats, and the Gryffindors burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior while Lupin had been ill.

“It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?”

“We don’t know anything about werewolves —”

“— two rolls of parchment!”

“Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly.

The babble broke out again.

“Yes, but he said we were really behind —”

“— he wouldn’t listen —”

“—  _ two rolls of parchment _ !”

Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on every face.

“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t have to do the essay.”

A cheer went up around the class, and Violet felt a wave of relief wash over her.

They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing the same funny little one-legged creature Violet had briefly seen drawn on the chalkboard, which turned out to be a hinkypunk. It was small and looked as though it were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light — then —”

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door. Violet hung back however, and was surprised to hear her name called.

“Harry, Violet, wait a moment,” Lupin said, and Harry stopped near the door. “I’d like a word.”

Harry double back and joined Violet in heading to the front of the class, where Professor Lupin was covering the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth.

“I heard about the match,” said Lupin to Harry, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Lupin sighed.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near on it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

“Did you hear about the dementors too?” said Violet lightly.

Lupin looked at her quickly.

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time . . . furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds . . . I suppose they were the reason you both fell unconscious?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He was silent for a moment, and then, “ _ Why _ ? Why do the dementors affect us like that? Are we just —”

“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor Lupin sharply, as though he had read the twin’s minds. “The dementors affect you two worse than the others because there are horrors in your pasts that the others don’t have.”

A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin’s grey hairs, and the lines on his young face. And he was  _ young _ , Violet realized suddenly, far younger than she had first assumed. Thirties, perhaps. Faintly, Violet wondered what it was that had ever made her afraid of him to begin with.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself . . . soulless and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, children, is enough to make anyone faint. Neither of you has anything to be ashamed of.”

“When they get near us —” Violet stared at Lupin’s desk, her throat tight. “We can hear Voldemort murdering our mum.”

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though to grip Violet’s shoulder, but stopped when she flinched fiercely away from him. 

“Sorry,” she said automatically, “sorry, I’m not —”

“It’s alright,” Lupin said calmly, though it sounded as though his throat had gone tight as well. He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Violet, I apologize.”

Violet bit her lip and avoided Lupin’s eyes. There was a moment’s silence, then —

“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry bitterly.

“They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won’t let them come into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up . . . I don’t think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement . . . emotions running high . . . it was their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Violet muttered. Lupin nodded grimly.

“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don’t need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said slowly. “He got away . . .”

Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to stoop quickly to catch it. Violet, who knew a ploy to hide one’s face when she saw one, watched him carefully.

“Yes,” said Lupin, straightening up, his expression fixed and neutral. “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it possible . . . Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long . . .”

“ _ You _ made that dementor on the train go away,” said Violet suddenly.

“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said Lupin. “But there was only one dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach us?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, Harry . . . quite the contrary . . .”

“But if the dementors come onto the grounds again,” Violet jumped in, “we’ll need to be able to fight them. We can’t just keep blacking out like that; you just said they drain happiness and memories. If they get to us and we can’t defend each other . . .”

Lupin looked between them, staring into their determined faces, hesitated, then said, “Well . . . alright. I’ll try and help. But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

“It’s not your fault,” Violet said at once, before she could stop herself. Lupin looked at her then, brows raised, surprised. She stammered, “I — I mean, it’s not like you could help getting sick. Especially with how cold it’s been lately.”

Struck with a sudden though, Violet opened her bag and dug down into the bottom of it, where she found the last bit of fudge that Tracey had brought back from Honeydukes for her. She fished it out, picked a spot of lint off the wrapper, and held it out toward Professor Lupin.

“If chocolate can fix whatever it is dementors do to us, I reckon it can fix anything,” Violet said, smiling at him. Lupin looked stunned. After a moment, he carefully reached out and plucked the sweet from her palm.

“Thank you, Violet,” he said sincerely, eyes gleaming. “I hope you’re right.”

 

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from Lupins, the thought that they might never have never have to hear their mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, the twins moods took a definite upturn. While Harry’s energy was spent as usual on the Quidditch pitch, Violet turned her attention to her studies and to further exploration of the beasts and monsters of the magical world. She spent many an evening curled beneath the windows of the library, reading by lamplight while the haze of chilly rain pounded away at the glass all through December. Violet saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.

Two weeks before the end of term, the sky lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds were revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick had already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies. The students were all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Tracey and Cassius had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and they both flatly told Violet it was because they wanted to keep her company. Flustered as she was, she was also very grateful.

To everyone’s delight except Violet’s, there was to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.

Resigned to the fact that they would be the only third years staying behind again, Harry and Violet met up and decided to spend the day moping around the castle again, wandering the halls and trying to cheer one another up.

On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, the pair of them bid goodbye to their friends, who were all wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned and headed up the marble staircase together, intent on finding the most exciting place to be miserable. Snow had started to fall outside the windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

“Psst — you two!”

Harry and Violet turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at them from behind a statue of a hump-backed, one-eyed witch.

“What’re you doing?” said Violet curiously. “How come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?”

“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in here . . .”

He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue. Harry and Violet followed Fred and George inside. George closed the door quietly and then turned, beaming, to look at them.

“Early Christmas present for you,” he said. “But there’s only one, so you’ll have to share.”

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Violet and Harry glanced at one another, suspecting one of Fred and George’s jokes.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Violet asked.

“This, dear Violet, is the secret to our success,” said George, patting the parchment fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it away,” said Fred, “but we decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We bequeath it to the pair of you, twins to twins. We don’t really need it anymore.”

“And what do we need with a bit of old parchment?” said Harry.

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. “Explain, George.”

“Well . . . when we were in our first year — young, carefree, innocent —”

Violet snorted. She doubted whether Fred and George had ever been innocent.

“— well, more innocent than we are now — we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason —”

“So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual —”

“— detention —”

“— disembowelment —”

“— and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked  _ Confiscated and Highly Dangerous _ .”

“Don’t tell me —” said Violet, brows furrowing.

“Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed —  _ this _ .”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George, seeing the look on Violet’s face. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it, though, or he wouldn’t’ve confiscated it.”

“And you know how to work it?”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“You’re winding us up,” said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.

“Oh, are we?” said George.

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “ _ I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. _ ”

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words that proclaimed:

 

_ Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs _

_ Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers _

_ are proud to present _

**The Marauder’s Map**

 

It was a map showing every detail of Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in miniscule writing. Astounded, Harry and Violet bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Violet’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, she noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages she had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead —

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four” — he pointed them out — “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about  _ these _ . Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in — completely blocked. And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times. And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s hump.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed George, patting the head of the map. “We owe them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of law-breakers,” said Fred solemnly.

“Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it after it you use it —”

“— otherwise anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And it’ll go blank.”

“So, young Potters,” said Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourselves.”

“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.

They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.

Harry and Violet stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. Then, after shooting a quick glance in one another’s direction, they both dived for it.

“ _ Ow _ !” Harry hissed as Violet’s elbow jabbed sharply into his chest.

“ _ Hey _ !” said Violet, as her brother gave a solid yank to the short plait at the back of her neck. They scuffled violently for a few moments, filling the room with sounds of grunts and scrapes as they bumped into desks and chairs in their struggle to keep one another away from their newfound treasure. In the end it was Violet, whose sharp joints and superior reach gave her an advantage, that ended up victorious, holding the Marauder’s Map high over her head in triumph. Harry, defeated, scowled at her.

“Go on, then,” he said, “lead the way, Vi.”

“If you insist,” said Violet brightly. She turned on her heel and practically skipped to the doorway. She opened it a couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very carefully, she edged out of the room and behind the statue of the one-eyed witch, and waited for Harry to catch up.

“What now?” Harry whispered as he wedged himself in beside her.

“Hang  _ on _ , I’m trying to — oh,  _ look _ !”

Violet and Harry saw, to their astonishment, that two new ink figures had appeared on the map, squished very close to one another, one labeled  _ Harry Potter _ and the other  _ Violet Potter. _ These figures were standing exactly where the real Harry and Violet were standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor. Violet watched carefully. Her little ink self appeared to be tapping the witch with her minute wand. Violet quickly took out her real wand and tapped the statue. Nothing happened.

“Look, you’re saying something,” Harry said, squinting closely at the tiniest speech bubble that had appeared next to their figures. “Try  _ ‘dis- disen- Dissendium _ ?”

“Er —  _ Dissendium _ !” Violet whispered, and tapped the stone witch again.

At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. The twins beamed at one another, glanced up and down the corridor, then Violet tucked the map away inside her jumper and hoisted herself into the hole headfirst and pushed forward.

She slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. A moment later, Harry landed heavily on top of her.

“ _ Ow . . . _ ” Violet groaned as Harry scrambled to get to his feet, jabbing his knee into her back as he did. “You could have waited till I said it was clear . . .”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry said, helping her to her feet. “I didn’t know how long the hump would stay open. Here, hang on, let me —”

There was a rusting of cloth and then Violet heard her brother say, “ _ Lumos _ !” and the space around them was bathed in cool, white light. They were in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. It looked very dark up ahead, and Violet couldn’t see any sign of daylight ahead.

“Come on!” Harry urged, starting forward, but she held him back with a tug on his elbow.

“Just a moment,” said Violet. She raised the map, tapped it with the tip of her wand, and muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank at once. She folded it carefully, tucked it up inside her robes, then, with a quick nod to Harry, set off.

Violet’s heart was beating very fast as they followed along the passageway. It twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. With only Harry’s wand light held out in front of them, the pair stumbled now and then on the uneven floor, and with every step Violet’s guts wound themselves into tighter and tighter knots. She didn’t like tight spaces, not one bloody bit. Even having the curtains drawn around her bed at night was too much for her at times, and the earthen walls pressing in from all sides made her feel as though her very body was collapsing inward, desperate not to touch the boundaries that confined her. Tight spaces reminded her of the cupboard under the stairs. It was miserable place to be reminded of.

It took ages, but by the time true panic set in they were too far along to go back. After what felt like an hour, the passage began to rise. Panting and shaking, Violet sped up, grabbing onto the back of Harry’s sweater both as a tether and to urge him on.

Ten minutes later, they came to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rose out of sight above them. Careful not to make any noise, Harry and Violet began to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred, they lost count as they climbed . . . Then, without warning, Harry’s head banged into something hard.

It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry put out his wand and rubbed the top of his head, listening. After a moment he reached up and, very slowly, pushed the trapdoor open and peered over the edge. Then he clambered silently up and out of it and motioned for Violet to follow.

They were in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates and boxes. Harry replaced the trapdoor after Violet was through it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. The twins crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led upstairs. Now they could definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the opened and shutting of a door.

Wondering what they ought to do, they suddenly heard a door open much closer at hand; somebody was about to come downstairs.

“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they’ve nearly cleaned us out —” said a woman’s voice.

A pair of feet was coming down the staircase. Harry leapt behind an enormous crate and dragged Violet down with him, and they waited for the footsteps to pass. They heard the man shifting boxes against the opposite wall. They might not get another chance —

Quickly and silently, Violet pulled Harry’s arm and they dodged out from their hiding place and climbed the stairs. They reached the door at the top, slipped through it, and found themselves behind the counter of Honeydukes — the pair of them ducked, crept sideways, and then straightened up.

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students that no one looked twice at Harry or Violet.

There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-coloured toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavour Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, and levitating sherbet balls that Cassius had mentioned; along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets; Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-coloured bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (“breathe fire for your friends!”), Ice Mice (“hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”), peppermint creams shaped like toads (“hop realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.

Harry and Violet squeezed themselves through a crowd of sixth years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione were standing underneath it examining a tray of blood-flavoured lollipops. Harry sneaked up behind them.

“Ugh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying.

“How about these?” said Ron, shoving a jar of Cockroach Clusters under Hermione’s nose.

“Definitely not,” said Harry.

Ron nearly dropped the jar.

“ _ Harry! _ ” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing here? How — how did you —?”

“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you’ve learned to Apparate!”

“Of course we haven’t,” Violet said, stepping around Harry, smirking at the stunned looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces. “That’s far too advanced for the likes of us, don’t you think?”

“Then  _ how _ —”

“Fred and George,” said Harry. He tugged pointedly on Violet’s sleeve, but she ignored him.

“They showed us a path out of the castle,” she said, dropping her voice low so none of the sixth years could hear. “It leads right out through the cellar here.”

“But how on earth did  _ they _ find it?” Hermione asked.

“They had a —” started Harry.

“— bit of luck,” interrupted Violet, smiling warningly at him. Harry frowned. She knew he would tell his friends about the map sooner or later, but that didn’t mean Violet had to like it. And as long as it was tucked away in  _ her _ pocket, it was going to be kept a secret for just the two of them.

“Have you seen Cass and Tracey?” Violet asked, changing the subject quickly as she noticed the suspicious looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces.

“Er, we weren’t really looking for them,” said Ron. “Maybe try the Three Broomsticks? That’s the pub up the road; they don’t really seem the type for Zonko’s — the joke shop, I mean, and that’s just up the way —”

Violet looked hopefully out the mullioned window as though she might spot her friends passing by, but all she could see was the thick, swirling snow. It would be foolish to try and venture out on her own. She had no idea where anything was and couldn’t ask for fear of being recognized and reported. It would be easier, unfortunately, to hang about with Harry, Ron, and Hermione for the time being.

“I’ll catch up to them,” said Violet wistfully, turning away from the window and back to shop. “So what’re the best sweets they’ve got here?”

It was another ten minutes before they left the shop, pockets bulging with all manner of sweets. Ron pointed out some his favourites, Fizzing Whizbees and Jelly Slugs, and warned Harry and Violet off a barrel of Acid Pops — “Fred gave me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping him with her broomstick” — and advised against trying the Ice Mice if they planned of having any conversation for the next hour.

In the end, Violet loaded up on some of the more interesting looking treats; Pepper Imps and Exploding Bonbons for a bit of fun, plenty of chocolates and toffees to keep tucked in her bag, and her favourite, of course — lime flavoured sugar quills.

When they had all paid for their sweets, the four of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard outside.

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and stringes of enchanted candles hanging in the trees.

Violet shivered; unlike Ron and Hermione, she and Harry didn’t have their cloaks. They headed up the street, heads bowed against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting through their scarves.

“That’s the post office —”

“Zonko’s is up there —”

“We could go to the Shrieking Shack —”

“Tell you what,” said Ron, his teeth chattering, “shall we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?”

Violet and Harry were more than willing; the wind was fierce and their hands were freezing, so they crossed the road, and in a few minutes were entering a tiny inn.

It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.

“That’s Madam Rosmerta,” said Ron. “I’ll get the drinks, shall I?” he added, going slightly red.

As Harry and Hermione looked around for a place to sit, Violet spotted, sitting at a table at the back of room between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, Tracey and Cassius hunched over their own mugs of butterbeer, chatting quietly to one another. She quickly stealthed her way across the room toward them.

“Anything else I can get for you, dears?” Violet said, adopting what she hoped was suitably innocuous barmaid impression. Cass and Tracey shook their heads without looking at her. She dropped the accent. “Are you sure?”

“Violet!” squeaked Tracey in shock, jumping to her feet while Cass sloshed butterbeer all down the front of his robes. Violet only barely held her footing as Tracey’s hug crashed into her, hopping up and down in excitement. “Oh my gosh,  _ Violet _ , what are you doing here? How did you — did you get Professor Snape to sign the permission form?”

“We snuck out,” Violet said quietly, beaming as she gestured to where Harry and Hermione were still standing. “Fred and George showed us a way out of the castle — can we join you? The place looks pretty packed.”

The table was small, but after budging up together and borrowing a few vacant chairs from nearby the six of them were able to sit comfortably around it. Ron came back five minutes later, carrying four foaming tankards of hot butterbeer, and wedged himself between Violet and Harry.

“Merry Christmas!” he said happily, raising his tankard.

Violet drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of her from the inside.

A sudden breeze caught the back of her neck, making her shiver. The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again. Violet looked over the rim of her tankard and choked.

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

In an instant, Tracey had thrown an arm around Violet and wrestled her to the floor at the same time as Ron and Hermione both shoved Harry out of his stool. Dripping butterbeer and crouching out of sight, the twins clutched at one another and watched the teachers’ and Fudge’s feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn and walk straight toward them.

Somewhere above them, Cassius whispered, “ _ Mobiliarbus! _ ”

The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding them all from view. Staring through the dense lower branches, Violet saw four sets of chair legs move back from the table right beside theirs, then heard the grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they sat down.

Next she saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice.

“A small gillywater —”

“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Four pints of mulled mead —”

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella —”

“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.

“So you’ll be the red currant rum, Minister.”

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge’s voice. “Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us . . .”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

Violet watched the glittering heels march away and back again. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably in her throat. It hadn’t occured to her that this was the last weekend of term for the teachers, too. How long were they going to sit there? She and Harry needed time to sneak back into Honeydukes if they wanted to return to school tonight . . . Hermione’s leg gave a nervous twitch next to them.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta’s voice.

Violet saw the lower part of Fudge’s thick body twist in his chair as though he were checking for eavesdroppers. Then he said in a quiet voice, “What else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?”

“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Madam Rosmerta.

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor McGonagall exasperatedly.

“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.

“You know that the dementors have searched the whole village twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away . . . It’s very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary precaution . . . unfortunate, but there you are . . . I’ve just met some of them. They’re in a fury against Dumbledore — he won’t let them inside the castle grounds.”

“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose feet were dangling a foot from the ground.

“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to protect you all from something much worse . . . We all know what Black’s capable of . . .”

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d have thought . . . I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much mead.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.”

“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?”

“I certainly do,” said Fudge.

“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta?” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?”

“Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I saw them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!”

Violet’s mouth fell open, emitting a strangled sort of squeak. Cass kicked her.

“Precisely,” said Professor McGonagall. “Black and Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of troublemakers —”

“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George Weasley could give ‘em a run fer their money.”

“You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!” chimed in Professor Flitwick. “Inseparable!”

“Of course they were,” said Fudge. “Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him.”

Violet glanced quickly at her brother; Harry’s mouth was hanging open as well, face ashen. He didn’t even meet her eyes, so intense was his focus on the feet beneath the table beside them.

“Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Worse even than that, m’dear . . .” Fudge dropped his voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble. “Not many people are aware that the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore told them that their best chance with the Fidelius Charm.”

“How does that work?” said Madam Rosmerta, breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat.

“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily, “involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his known pressed against their sitting room window!”

“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would rather die than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself . . . and yet, Dumbledore remained worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters’ Secret-Keeper himself.”

“He suspected Black?”

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly. “Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.”

“But James Potter insisted on using Black?”

“He did,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed —”

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta.

“He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potter’s death. But, as we all know, You-Know-Who, met his downfall in the little Potter twins. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his true colours as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it —”

“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that half the bar went quiet.

“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall.

“I met him!” growed Hagrid. “I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people! It was me what rescued Harry and Violet from Lily an’ James’s house after they was killed! Jus’ got ‘em outta the ruins, poor little things — Violet cryin’ her head off an’ Harry with a great slash across his forehead, an’ their parents dead . . . an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride. Never occured ter me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know he’d bin Lily an’ James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard the news o’ You-Know-Who’s attack an’ come ter see what he could do. White an’ shakin’ he, was. An’ yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’ TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared.

“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall. “Keep your voice down!”

“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’ James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’ then he says, “Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him —’ didn’ even ask after little Violet, the wretch. Ha! But I’d had me orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no, Dumbledore said the twins was ter go ter their aunt an’ uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told me ter take his motorbike ter get them there. ‘I won’t need it anymore,’ he says.

“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ in ter me for? Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d have bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him.

“ _ But what if I’d given Harry and Violet to him, eh _ ? I bet he’d have pitched them off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’ friends’ babies! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ‘em anymore . . .”

A long silence followed Hagrid’s story. Then Madam Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him the next day!”

“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly. “It was not we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew — another of the Potters’ friends. Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’ Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.”

“Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy you who was tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam Rosmerta.

“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I — how I regret that now . . .” She sounded as though she had sudden head cold.

“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly. “Pettigrew died a hero’s death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later — told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing, ‘Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’ And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew to smithereens . . .”

Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly, “Stupid boy . . . foolish boy . . . he was always hopeless at dueling . . . should have left it to the Ministry . . .”

“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands — I’d’ve ripped him limb — from — limb,” Hagrid growled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,” said Fudge sharply. “Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I — I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him . . . a heap of bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments . . .”

Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly. There was the sound of five noses being blown.

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge thickly. “Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black’s been in Azkaban ever since.”

Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh.

“It is true he’s mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man — cruel . . . pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there’s no sense in them . . . but I was shocked at how  _ normal _ Black seemed. He spoke quite rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have thought he was merely bored — asked if I’d finished my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night.”

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said Madam Rosmeta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing . . . but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he’ll rise again . . .”

There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone had set down their glass.

“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,” said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry and Violet took the weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks swung into sight, and Madam Rosmerta’s glittering heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

“Hey . . .”

The faces of Ron, Hermione, Tracey, and Cassius appeared under the table. They were all staring at the twins, lost for words.


	11. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet didn’t have a very clear idea of how she and Harry had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All she knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that she hardly noticed what she was doing because her head was still pounding with the conversation they’d just heard.

Why had nobody ever told them? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge . . . why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the fact that Violet and Harry’s parents had died because their best friend betrayed them?

Tracey and Cassius watched Violet nervously all through dinner, not daring to talk about what they’d overheard with so many other ears nearby. When they went down into the crowded common room, Violet didn’t slow her stride for a moment as she walked right past the open chairs and tables and, without a word to anyone, went straight into the girls dormitory. She pulled the curtains back from her bed, flopped down face-first onto her mattress, grabbed the pillow and held it tight to her face and began to scream.

The pillow muffled the sound from the many people just outside the door. Violet screamed and screamed, ignoring the pain in her throat and the burning in her lungs.

Violet didn’t know how long she spent there. It took a long time to get all the screams out; the pillow was damp with saliva tears by the time she pulled her face away, red and gasping. Her eyes hurt. Her throat was raw. But there was a far worse pain growing inside of her. 

A hatred such as she had never known before was coursing through Violet like poison. Stronger than anything she’d ever felt toward another person in her life — no mocking words from Draco Malfoy or abuse that she’d suffered at the hands of the Dursleys had ever made her feel this way. Like a dull ache or a rising sickness, it sat in her belly and roiled.

He had  _ known _ them. Sirius Black had known not only known their parents, but Violet and Harry themselves. He was their father’s best man at their parent’s wedding. He was Harry’s godfather. He had likely held both of them in his arms when they were just babies, bounced them on his knee, smiled and laughed and cooed over them while their parents looked on. Sirius Black had been trusted and loved and welcomed by her parents, and he had betrayed them and led to their murders. Sirius Black was the reason she couldn’t remember the faces of her mother and father.

Violet lay there, hating and hurting, until the dormitory door opened.

“Violet?” said Tracey’s voice uncertainly.

But Violet shut her eyes and lay still, pretending to be asleep. She heard the door close and thought for a moment that Tracey had left, but then heard the soft padding of footsteps approaching her bed. The blankets shifted and the mattress dipped as Tracey slipped in beside Violet.

“I know you’re awake,” Tracey breathed hesitantly, “but if you want to keep pretending you’re not, that’s okay. We don’t have to talk. But I’m gonna stay here, okay? I mean, unless you really want me to go, but — but otherwise I’ll be right here, okay?”

Tracey went quiet, as though waiting for an answer, but Violet gave none. She didn’t trust herself at the moment; if she opened her mouth to speak, she might start screaming again.

But true to her word, Tracey stayed. She shifted the pull the curtains closed around them so none of the other girls could see in, and Violet heard the twin  _ thunks _ as her shoes were kicked off and hit the floor, and then felt a heavy arm settle across her back. It was warm and strong and more comforting that she could have ever expected. Silently, Violet began to cry again.

 

The sun was not yet up when Violet woke. Though there were no windows down in the dungeons, the magical sconces set in the walls would glow to mirror the strength of the sun in the sky — the dorm was completely dark, and Tracey was still fast asleep next to her.

Violet’s mouth was very dry. She was very, very warm, thanks to the body beside her and the fat orange cat she could feel asleep at her feet, but the moment she opened her eyes it was as though a strange chill came over her. The memory of everything she’d heard the day before came flooding back and so did the terrible emotion that came with it. Gently, but quickly as she dared, Violet slipped out from beneath Tracey’s arm and stood up.

The stone floor was freezing. She could hear the soft breathing of the other girls in the dormitory — Pansy, closest to the door, while Millicent and Suzanna were at the far end of the room. It was far too early to be up and about, and yet Violet knew that even if she tried to go back to bed she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Going up into the common room wasn’t an option; the sound of the heavy dormitory door opening would surely wake someone, and they’d want to know what she was doing. And if it was  _ Tracey _ that woke up, she would have plenty of difficult questions as well. Unless . . .

Slowly and silently, inch by inch, Violet pulled open the drawer to her bedside table. There wasn’t much she kept in there; old quills and crumpled notes, a handful of woven friendship bracelets for when she wanted some colour with her clothes and —

A simple leather cord, bearing a carved bone pendant and a shiny silver ring, set with three tiny, round, milk-white stones. The former was a gift from Hagrid and the latter was given to Violet by Professor Dumbledore in her very first year at Hogwarts. While the bone charm was important to her as well, it was the ring that she thought would be the most useful.

Violet untied the leather cord and let the silver ring slip off into her hand. She glanced around the dormitory to make sure there were no prying eyes, took a deep breath, and slipped the ring onto the middle finger of her left hand.

Her body didn’t feel any different. Nothing in her environment had changed. But when Violet looked down at her hands and feet, she could see right through them to the floor below.

She wasn’t invisible — Harry’s cloak could make the person wearing it disappear completely, while Violet’s ring left her body visible yet translucent, like one of the many ghosts that wandered the halls of Hogwarts. She shimmered faintly and her footsteps made no noise no matter how hard she ran and, most remarkably of all, while wearing her ring Violet’s body was able to pass straight through solid objects. Tables, walls, even other people; she had nearly gotten stuck several times, which made her feel very tingly and light-headed, but as long as she moved quickly there was no barrier she’d yet been unable to penetrate.

The heavy wooden door of the girl’s dormitory might not have been there at all, so easy it was to pass through. The common room was dark and empty with only embers burning in the fireplace, and Violet didn’t even slow her stride as she walked straight through the solid door and out into the dungeon corridor beyond. She paused, looked both ways, and then set off toward the entrance hall.

Violet didn’t encounter a soul all the way from the dungeons to the grand staircase. She would pause at every corner, looking and listening for signs of Mr. Filch or Mrs. Norris or, worst of all, Peeves the Poltergeist, but for once luck seemed to be in her favour. The castle was chilly and silent, and Violet took the stairs two at a time without making a single sound.

She had an idea of where she was going; when the portrait of the Fat Lady was attacked by Sirius Black on Halloween, plenty of students from other Houses had rushed to gawk at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room before the ruined painting could be removed. Violet knew that just as the Slytherins had their own entire section of the dungeons, the Gryffindors had an entire tower to themselves, and that it was one of the tallest towers in the whole castle. The astronomy tower was another one, and she already knew where that was — the other tower belonged to the Ravenclaws, if all the chatter she’d heard over the years was correct. Violet stood on the first landing on the grand staircase, looking back and forth between the two paths on either side of her. She debated with herself for a moment, trying to remember which way Harry, Ron, and Hermione usually went after dinner, and then set off to the right.

This turned out to be the correct path. Violet climbed and climbed, silent and unseen, until she reached the grand landing of the tall tower, where a massive portrait of a grassy field covered a large portion of the wall. A fat grey pony was grazing lazily, and a knight in dented, rather muddy armor was dozing on the ground beside it. Violet, who had heard enough Gryffindors complaining about their new ‘portrait guardian,’ supposed this must be the place.

She didn’t know the password, and waking up the funny little knight to ask if she could please go inside seemed like a waste of time, so Violet took another great big deep breath and walked straight through the painting and the wall behind it.

She emerged suddenly into a circular, cozy-looking room — there was a large fireplace surrounded by squashy-looking armchairs; several well worn tables and chairs were set up around the edges of the room, the floors were covered in a variety of ill-matching rugs, and the walls were covered in dozens of snoozing portraits. A battered bulletin board stood near the door, covered entirely with notices, lost posters, and invitations to various clubs. While much messier than the grand, stately Slytherin common room, the Gryffindors’ common room certainly had a charming atmosphere.

Violet stood very still just inside the portrait, waiting for an alarm to sound or a trap to be triggered; students from separate Houses weren’t allowed into each other’s common rooms, and Violet was certain she would be in terrible trouble if she were caught. But after a several long, tense moments with nothing at all happening to her, Violet relaxed.

The common room was empty and dark. There were two staircases near the back of the room, which presumably led to the girls’ and boys’ dormitories — unfortunately, Violet had no way of knowing which was which. Or, indeed, of knowing which dorm was Harry’s.

This was all turning out to be much harder than Violet had planned when she set out. In her mind, it was so simple — sneak into Gryffindor tower and find Harry. While the first part had been difficult only in the sense that it required a lot of walking, the second half would surely require some trial and error.

Violet closed her eyes for a long moment to steel her nerves. She had made it this far. She could go a little farther.

The pink glow of sunrise was just starting paint the dark sky when she finally found her brother. The first staircase she’d taken led to the girl’s dormitories, and it had taken several tries to find Harry’s dormitory after that, but sticking her head through the doorway the very top of the stairs let Violet catch a glimpse of bright, orange, unmistakably Weasley-ish hair and she knew she’d found the right place.

The bed to the right of Ron’s contained the lightly snoring form of Neville Longbottom, while the bed to the left had its curtains drawn tightly around it. Violet slipped off her ring and peeked inside.

Harry’s eyes were open and met hers immediately as soon as the curtain shifted. He started to sit up in shock.

“Vi? What are you —?”

“ _ Shh _ ,” Violet hissed, looking quickly around at the other sleeping boys. She pulled the hangings wider and nudged Harry on the shoulder. “Budge up,” she whispered, “I can’t sleep.”

Harry quickly made room on the mattress and Violet climbed in beside him. She carefully pulled the curtains shut again, mindful to leave no gaps.

“How did you get in here?” Harry breathed.

“Through the door,” Violet answered, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Harry narrowed his eyes at her; he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“ _ Through _ the door? Did anyone see you?”

Violet shook her head.

“I know I shouldn’t have — I just couldn’t sleep without you.”

All their lives Harry and Violet had shared not only a room, but a single bed. First they had been confined to the cramped cupboard beneath the stairs, sleeping end to end with their feet in each other’s faces, unable to stretch out in their close quarters. Then, after they received their Hogwarts letters, the Dursleys had been  _ kind _ enough to put the twins up in Dudley’s second bedroom — it was a big step up from the cupboard, but still required them to share the only bed in the room.

It had never been a problem for them. It was the only way they knew, and having to sleep apart for the first time in their lives at school was a huge adjustment. Violet had never thought anything of it. But both Tracey and Cassius had made strange faces on the occasions that she let slip details of what life at the Dursleys was like, and Violet quickly learned it was one of those things that was just best not to talk about at all.

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Harry said after a moment, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He looked as exhausted and tormented as Violet felt. Clearly thoughts of Sirius Black had been weighing on his mind as well.

Now that she was here, Violet couldn’t think anything at all to say to her brother. She’d wanted to sit up and talk with him, tell him everything she was feeling right down to all the ugly, poisonous thoughts that had been bubbling within her since the afternoon before — but the many sleeping bodies around them made that impossible and, though she’d only been there a short while, Violet already found her eyelids growing heavy. Harry had always calmed her. He’d always been able to make her feel safe, even when they both knew they were anything but.

“G’night, Harry,” Violet murmured, tucking her face further beneath the blankets.

“Night, Vi,” said Harry. 

Their knees bumped together as Harry shifted slightly to give her more room; Violet closed her eyes, and in a matter of seconds fell soundly asleep.

 

It was nearly midday when Harry gently shook her awake. He was standing and dressed with his glasses on, and for a moment Violet thought perhaps she’d woken up back at the Dursleys. But then the garish red hangings around the bed came into view, and she remembered her nighttime incursion into Gryffindor tower.

“I’ve got something to show you,” Harry said.

Violet sat up, confused, and Harry passed her a leather-bound book that she recognized to be the photo album Hagrid had given them two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of their mother and father. Immediately more awake, Violet rubbed her eyes and stared at the picture Harry had put in front of her.

It was their parents’ wedding day. There was their father waving up at her, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was their mother, beautiful, alight with happiness, arm in arm with their dad. But there was another man into the photo as well. Violet had never paid him much attention before, but when Harry silently pointed him out she knew at once who he was.

“That’s him,” Harry said quietly, finger shaking slightly as he pointed to the man. “The best man at their wedding, Fudge said — that’s Sirius Black.”

If she hadn’t known it was the same person, Violet would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture was taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him? Did he realize that he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would make him unrecognizable?

Without thinking, Violet slipped the photo from its holding and ripped it, cleanly and quickly, tearing Black’s laughing face out of the frame.

“Hey!” Harry said, angrily snatching the paper scraps from her hands. “What’d you do that for?”

“I don’t want to see him with them,” Violet said. She shoved the photo album back into Harry’s arms. “It’s not fair, he gets to be happy with them and we don’t.”

“It’s just a picture! Look, you’ve crumpled it — you ripped part of Mum’s dress . . .”

Harry was frowning at the two halves of the photograph, trying to fit them back together so that the tear didn’t show. Violet immediately regretted what she had done. That was the only picture she and Harry had of their parents wedding. And if she’d ruined it in a fit of foolish anger . . .

“Here,” she said in a small voice, holding out her hands. “Let me fix it.”

Harry looked at her distrustfully.

“How?” he said. “You haven’t got your wand, have you?”

It was true; Violet had left her wand on her nightstand back down in the dungeons.

“I don’t need it,” she said, shaking her head. “Give it here, Harry, I’ll put it right.”

Not looking very confident, Harry reluctantly returned the fragments to Violet’s hands. She held them together, covering Black’s laughing face with her thumb as she aligned the ragged edges once more. Instead she looked at her mother, whose brilliant green eyes shone back at her; her father, whose chin she and Harry unmistakably shared. Her hands felt warm, and without warning a shock of bright yellow light flashed across the surface of the paper. Violet dropped the picture in surprise. Harry quickly stooped to pick it up.

“Wow . . .” he muttered, turning the photo over in his hands; it was whole again, two halves restored to one piece. Harry glanced up at Violet. “One day you’ve got to show me how you keep doing that stuff.”

“I don’t  _ mean _ to do it,” said Violet. “Well, I suppose I did this time, but usually it just sort of happens. Like — like with Aunt Marge.”

Harry’s face scrunched up at the mention of their ‘aunt.’

“You’re getting better at controlling it, though,” Harry said. He pulled up the drawer of his bedside table and slipped the photo album inside. “D’you want to come downstairs?”

Panic immediately seized Violet’s heart.

“I’m not supposed to be in here,” she squeaked. “If anybody sees me —”

“Don’t worry, everyone’s gone!”

“Gone?”

Harry smiled at her. “It’s the first day of the holidays, remember? And it’s nearly lunchtime. Anyone who’s stayed probably won’t be in the common room.”

 

“Hey, Harry,” Ron said as Harry descended the staircase from the boy’s dormitory, shortly followed by, “ _ Bloody hell _ !” as he caught sight of Violet behind him.

Violet’s face was flushed and nervous as she emerged into the Gryffindor common room. Harry had been right; it  _ was _ empty, save for Ron who was eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her homework over three tables. Both of them were now staring open-mouthed at Violet.

“What’re  _ you _ doing here?” Ron asked, gawking at her. “Harry — what’s  _ she _ doing here?”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Harry said simply. He slumped into a cushy, threadbare looking sofa next to the fire and gestured for Violet to join him.

“But how did she get in?” hissed Hermione, throwing a sidelong glance at Violet. “People from other Houses aren’t supposed to be in one another’s common rooms! If you’ve let her in —”

“ _ She _ got in all by herself,” Violet said loudly; Hermione and Ron at least had the decency to look abashed. “Nobody let me in, so if anyone’s going to get in trouble it’ll just be me.”

“But how did you do it?” Hermione said earnestly. “Nobody’s supposed to be able to get in here without the password. If you’ve found a way, what’s to stop Sirius Black from getting in the same way?”

“Sirius Black doesn’t have one of these,” Violet said, and slipped the little silver ring onto her finger. Ron let out a yelp.

“Bloody hell,” he said again, staring even as Violet took the ring back off, “I forgot you could do that . . .”

Hermione, however, did not look any less concerned about the whole thing. Harry was quick to put an end to the matter.

“Look, what does it matter?” he said emphatically. “Nobody else is here, nobody saw Violet come in, and nobody’s going to get in trouble over it. And unless Black can walk through walls I don’t think he’s getting into Gryffindor tower anytime soon. She’s just here, and it’s fine.”

“It wasn’t fine when we tried to get into  _ her _ common room,” Ron muttered, but quickly dropped the matter when Harry shot him a look.

The four of them sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, listening only to the crackling of the blazing fireplace. Snow was still falling outside the windows. Scabbers was sprawled out on Ron’s thigh, snoozing.

“You really don’t look well, you know,” said Hermione, peering anxiously between Harry and Violet.

“I’m fine,” they said together.

“Harry, listen,” said Hermione, exchanging a look with Ron, “and Violet, since you’re here too — you both must be really upset about what we heard yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing anything stupid.”

“Like what?” said Harry.

“Like trying to go after Black,” said Ron sharply.

Violet got the feeling they had rehearsed this conversation while Harry had been asleep. Harry didn’t say anything.

“You won’t, will you?” said Hermione.

“Because Black’s not worth dying for,” said Ron.

“It is if  _ he’s _ the one dying,” Violet said quietly. Ron and Hermione looked at her, aghast.

“Violet —”

“D’you know what we see and hear every time a dementor gets near us?” Harry said suddenly. Ron and Hermione shook their heads, looking apprehensive. “We can hear our mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort. And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that, just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. And if you found out someone who was supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent Voldemort after her —”

“There’s nothing you can do!” said Hermione, looking stricken. “The dementors will catch Black and he’ll go back to Azkaban and — and serve him right!”

“You heard what Fudge said,” Violet broke in. “Black isn’t affected by Azkaban like the others. It’s not a punishment for him like it ought to be.”

“So what are you saying?” said Ron, looking very tense. “You want to — to kill Black or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione in a panicky voice. “They don’t want to kill anyone, do you, Violet? Harry?”

Neither of them answered. Truthfully, Violet didn’t know what she wanted to do. She’d never felt hatred like this before, never had to cope with anything like it. What were they supposed to do?  _ Nothing _ , and just let Black roam free?

“Malfoy knows,” said Harry abruptly. “Remember what he said to me in Potions? ‘If it was me, I’d hunt him down myself . . . I’d want revenge.’”

“You’re going to take Malfoy’s advice instead of ours?” said Ron furiously. “Listen . . . you know what Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished with him? Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First Class, and Pettigrew’s finger in a box. That was the biggest bit of him they could find. Black’s a madman, Harry, and he’s dangerous —”

“Malfoy’s father must have told him,” said Violet, ignoring Ron. “I’m sure he was right in Voldemort’s inner circle —”

“ _ Say You-Know-Who, will you _ ?” Ron interjected angrily.

“— so obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working for Voldemort —” said Harry.

“— and Malfoy’d love to see you both blown into about a million pieces, like Pettigrew!” Ron pushed. “Get a grip. Malfoy’s just hoping you’ll get yourselves killed before he has to play Harry at Quidditch.”

“Harry,  _ please _ ,” said Hermione, her eyes now shining with tears, “ _ please _ be sensible. Black did a terrible, terrible thing, but d-don’t put yourselves in danger, it’s what Black wants . . . Oh, Harry, Violet, you’d be playing right into Black’s hands if you went looking for him. Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would they? They’d never want you to go looking for Black!”

“Pity we’ll never know what they’d have wainted, because thanks to Black, we’ve never spoken to them,” said Violet coldly.

There was a silence in which Scabbers ears twitched sleepily.

“Look,” said Ron, obviously casting around for a change of subject, “it’s the holidays! It’s nearly Christmas! Let’s — let’s go down and see Hagrid. We haven’t visited him for ages!”

“No!” said Hermione quickly. “Violet and Harry aren’t supposed to leave the castle, Ron —”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Harry, sitting up, “and we can ask him about how come he never mentioned Black when he told us all about our parents!”

Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn’t what Ron had had in mind.

“Or we could have a game of chess,” he said hastily. “Violet, I could teach you how to play —”

“No, let’s visit Hagrid,” said Violet firmly.

So they got their cloaks from their dormitories (Violet, who only had her pajamas and wasn’t yet ready to face Tracey and Cassius by going down the dungeons, borrowed some of Hermione’s clothes) and set off through the portrait hole, down through the empty castle and out through the oak front doors.

They made their way slowly down the lawn, making a shallow trench in the glittering, powdery snow, their socks and the hems of their cloaks soaked and freezing. The Forbidden Forest looked as though it had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver, and Hagrid’s cabin looked like an iced cake.

Ron knocked, but there was no answer.

“He’s not out, is he?” said Hermione, who was shivering under her cloak.

Ron had his ear to the door.

“There’s a weird noise,” he said. “Listen — is that Fang?”

Harry, Violet, and Hermione put their ears to the door too. From inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing moans.

“Hagrid!” called Harry, thumping the door. “Hagrid, are you in there?”

There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door creaked open. Hagrid stood there with his eyes red and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his leather vest.

“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and he flung himself onto Harry’s neck.

Hagrid being at least twice the size of a normal man, this was no laughing matter. Harry, about to collapse under Hagrid’s weight, was rescued by Ron and Violet, who each seized Hagrid under an arm and heaved him back into the cabin. Hagrid allowed himself to be steered into a chair and slumped over the table, sobbing uncontrollably, his face glazed with tears that dripped down into his tangled beard.

“Oh, Hagrid, what’s happened?” said Violet, aghast.

Harry reached for an official-looking letter lying open on the table.

“What’s this, Hagrid?”

Hagrid’s sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter toward Harry, who picked it up and read aloud:

 

_ Dear Mr. Hagrid, _

_ Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident. _

 

“Well, that’s okay then, Hagrid!” said Ron, clapping Hagrid on the shoulder. But Hagrid continued to sob, and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to read on.

 

_ However, we must register our concern about the hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complain of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated. _

_ Yours in fellowship . . . _

 

There followed a list of the school governors.

“Oh,” said Ron. “But you said Buckbeak isn’t a bad hippogriff, Hagrid. I bet he’ll get off —”

“Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee for the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” choked Hagrid, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’ve got in in fer interestin’ creatures!”

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid’s cabin made the four of them whip around. Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner, chomping on something that was oozing blood all over the floor.

“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow!” choked Hagrid. “All on his own! At Christmas!”

Violet’s heart swelled to bursting. Hagrid’s love for “interesting creatures” was often misunderstood and mocked, even by Harry and his friends, but to Violet there was nothing else so touching she’d seen in her whole short life. Hagrid cared for every living thing, no matter how big or how small or how many rows of teeth it had.

While Harry, Ron, and Hermione tried to reassure Hagrid and formulate a defense plan for him to use in court, Violet quietly broke away from the table and moved toward the lounging hippogriff.

“Hello, Buckbeak,” said Violet quietly as she approached. The hippogriff’s golden eye swiveled toward her suddenly and she stopped. Remembering what she’d learned in Hagrid’s very first lesson, Violet maintained eye contact and bowed her head low; after only a moment’s hesitation, Buckbeak bowed back, and went back to whatever the bloody morsel in front of him was. Violet took a few more cautious steps toward him and placed a gentle hand on his feathered neck. The hippogriff made a pleased trilling sound.

“There’s a good hippogriff,” Violet murmured, in a tone she hoped sounded soothing yet respectful. “Hagrid’s taking good care of you, isn’t he? You’ve got a warm bed and a nice treat . . .”

Buckbeak bit down hard on the thing in his beak and the sound of small bones cracking filled the cabin. Everyone stopped talking and looked over at the source of the noise.

“Aw, bless him,” Hagrid whined, staring fondly at Buckbeak and Violet. “See? How could he be a monster, lettin’ little Violet get close ter him like tha’ — even when he’s eatin’! How could anyone want ter — ter —

Hagrid howled still more loudly. The four children looked around at each other.

“Er — shall I make a cup of tea?” said Ron.

Violet stared at him.

“It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,” Ron muttered, shrugging.

At last, after many more assurances of help, with a steaming mug of team in front of him, Hagrid blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and said, “Yer right. I can’ afford to go ter pieces . . . Gotta pull meself together . . .”

Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the table and laid his head on Hagrid’s knee.

“I’ve not bin meself lately,” said Hagrid, stroking Fang with one hand and mopping his face with the other. “Worried abou’ Buckbeak, and no one likin’ me classes —”

“We do like them!” said Hermione at once.

“Yeah, they’re great!” said Ron, but Violet could see his fingers crossed under the table. “Er — how are the flobberworms?”

“Dead,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Too much lettuce.”

“Oh, no,” said Violet, and meant it. She was one of the few who actually  _ liked _ the flobberworms.

“An’ them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an’ all,” said Hagrid, with a sudden shudder. “Gotta walk past ‘em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three Broomsticks. ‘S like bein’ back in Azkaban —”

He fell silent, gulping his tea. Harry, Violet, Ron, and Hermione watched him breathlessly. They had never heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban before. Violet had been Petrified the entire time, during both his arrest and the span of his incarceration, and had only heard the details of it afterwards from Harry. After a pause, Hermione said timidly, “Is it awful in there, Hagrid?”

“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly. “Never bin anywhere like it. Thought I was goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’ over horrible stuff in me mind . . . the day I got expelled from Hogwarts . . . day me dad died . . . day I had ter let Norbert go . . .”

His eyes filled with tears. Norbert was the baby dragon Hagrid had once won in a game of cards.

“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while. An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all. I used ter hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep . . . When they let me out, it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’ back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world. Mind, the dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.”

“But you were innocent!” said Hermione.

Hagrid snorted.

“Think that matters to them? They don’ care. Long as they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there with ‘em, so they can leech all the happiness out of ‘em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s not.”

“Did you see Sirius Black while you were in there?” Violed asked suddenly. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all shot her looks of disbelief and alarm. Hagrid, however, only shook his head.

“‘Course not,” he muttered, furry brows knitting together. “I reckon they ‘ad him in some other part o’ the fortress — higher security than where they kept me . . . But if I  _ ‘ad _ seen him . . . if I’d ‘ad a moment ter get my hands around his worthless neck . . .”

A terrible, rageful expression came over Hagrid’s hairy face, but then it was gone as soon as it had come as he looked around at all the worried young faces around him. Hagrid cleared his throat loudly and then went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting Buckbeak go . . . tryin’ ter make him fly away . . . but how d’yeh explain ter a hippogriff it’s gotta go inter hidin’? An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law . . .” He looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again. “I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.”

“You won’t,” Violet said fiercely, grabbing hold of his enormous hand with her comparatively tiny one. “They won’t take you back, no matter what happens. I won’t let them.”

Hagrid blinked at her, astonished, then let out a guffaw, and then burst into tears again.

The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had hoped. Though Harry and Violet had by no means forgotten about Black, they couldn’t bring themselves to tear into Hagrid for information when he was in such an emotional state. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were intent on finding information to help Hagrid win his case against the Committee for the Disposal of Magical Creatures, but Violet thought her time could be much better spent offering comfort and support to both Hagrid and Buckbeak.

She was busy brooding over ways to cheer them up when a sudden shout rang out.

“ _ There you are! _ ”

Violet barely had enough time to look up before a body slammed into her, and Tracey’s chubby arms wrapped themselves tightly around her neck.

“We’ve been looking  _ everywhere _ !” Tracey cried. “When I woke up and you were gone I yelled until Cass woke up, and we went all through the dungeons, and the library, and the Great Hall, we went through all the corridors, even up the Astronomy Tower — Violet where  _ were _ you? I was so scared, we thought you’d gone after Sirius Black — we were about to go Professor Snape —”

“Think it’s funny, giving us a scare like that?” said the angry voice of Cassius Warrington. Violet looked up to see him striding toward her and for a moment she was afraid — but then he spread his long arms and wrapped them tightly around both her and Tracey, giving a brief, fierce squeeze before stepping back.

“I’m sorry,” Violet said in a small voice; through the shock, she could feel herself tearing up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — I didn’t want to bother anyone —”

“ _ I’m _ bothered,” Tracey said, still holding onto her. “You didn’t leave a note or anything, Violet . . . and why are you so cold, have you been outside?”

Violet was indeed freezing from the trek back from Hagrid’s hut; her shoes and the hem of her cloak were soaking wet and the snow in her hair had already begun to melt.

“I went to see Hagrid,” she said, finally extracting herself from Tracey’s hug. “I — er — spent the night there.”

Violet didn’t know why she was lying about where she’d slept, but for some reason she didn’t feel like telling her friends about sneaking into Gryffindor tower. To distract from the issue, she quickly explained about Buckbeak and Hagrid’s court date, and how he’d been too upset for her to get any information about Black out of him. Both Cass and Tracey were upset to hear of Buckbeak’s fate, but they didn’t ask Violet any more questions about why she’d left or what she was thinking. That, at least, was a relief.

 

On Christmas morning, Violet was woken by Tracey throwing a pillow at her.

“Presents!”

Violet sat up at once, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of her bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Tracey was already ripping the paper off her own presents.

“Oooh, I can’t believe he remembered!” Tracey squealed holding up a fuzzy, rainbow striped jumper with a shimmering unicorn on the front.

Violet had her own sweater as well, hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley — a deep green with the Slytherin serpent knitted on the front, also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. There was a letter from Aunt Petunia —  _ not _ from Uncle Vernon as well, which made Violet’s stomach do a funny flutter — which said only, “Happy Christmas,” followed by her aunt’s flowery, formal signature. No present was attached, but it was still the nicest thing Aunt Petunia had ever given her.

This year, Hagrid had given Violet a thick leather bracelet, carved and painted with images of frolicking animals — whether they were cows or horses, Violet wasn’t entirely sure, but she happily added the bracelet to her growing, eclectic collection of jewelry.

“Here!” said Tracey, bouncing over wearing her new unicorn sweater and holding out a brightly wrapped package under Violet’s nose. Violet grinned and tore into it with gusto.

Clearly from one of the stores in Hogsmeade, Tracey had bought Violet a handsome lined journal, which she excitedly pointed out could be used with the neverending quill she’d given Violet for her birthday. Likewise, she squealed with joy after opening the package Violet had sneakily wrapped the night before — a bright pink knitted hat which sported two large, black cat ears, enchanted to twitch realistically with the wearer’s mood.

“Hey!” yelled a voice from outside the door. “Come out here and give me my presents!”

Giggling and carrying their armfuls of gifts, Violet and Tracey raced up the stairs and straight into Cass, who was holding a present in each of his hands and wearing a huge smile on his face.

The Christmas spirit was alive and well in the Slytherin common room. Crookshanks was all over everyone’s laps, purring and shedding and chewing on things he shouldn’t be chewing on. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius passed around all the sweets they’d been given, laughing and teasing one another and enjoying the warmth from the crackling fireplace.

At lunchtime, they returned to their dorms to dress before heading down to the Great Hall. Violet was in the process of making her bed when she noticed something she hadn’t seen before; another present, hidden in the folds of her blankets. It was small and plainly wrapped, and she very nearly missed it for a second time.

The paper was thick and brown and sealed with both sellotape and a single, white ribbon. What really caught Violet’s attention was the fact the present bore no name or card from its sender. The last time Violet received unsigned packages from mysterious senders, both gifts had once belonged to her mother.

Ripping off the paper and carefully opening the simple cardboard box, Violet was startled to find yet another piece of fine jewelry staring back at her.

A silver hair comb was nestled on a folded handkerchief. It was tarnished with age, and as an antique it would have been beautiful even if it had been just as plain as its wrappings, but there was nothing plain about it at all; a flower with petals made of beaten silver adorned the comb, with six tiny emeralds set in the center. It was, unmistakably, a lily.

Violet’s fingers shook as she lifted the comb from its box, turning it in the light so that the emeralds winked up at her. The dirty silver gleamed like an oil slick, yet it was still the prettiest thing she had ever seen.

“Who’s  _ that _ from?” said Tracey breathlessly, and Violet looked up to find the other girl standing in front of her, wearing her new unicorn sweater and staring at the comb in Violet’s hands.

“I don’t know,” Violet said quietly. “There wasn’t a card . . .”

Tracey picked up the small cardboard box and turned it over in her hand. The handkerchief fell out, along with a folded piece of paper, which she caught as it fluttered to the floor. She opened it and gasped.

“Oh,  _ Violet _ . . . she was beautiful . . .”

“Who?” Violed asked in confusion. Tracey handed her the paper, which wasn’t just a paper at all — it was a photograph, badly creased and worn, of a smiling woman with dark red hair, posing to show off the shining silver accessory tucked behind her ear. The emeralds were the same colour as her eyes, and Violet knew her at once as her mother.

Violet stared and stared at her mother’s face, eating up the tiny details that she had never noticed before; the smattering of freckles across her nose, the little mole on her neck, the tiny, faded scar at the right corner of her mouth. None of the other pictures she had of her mother were close enough to capture such details, and Violet hungrily compared every feature to her own. She really did have her mother’s eyes, but also the same smile — it was odd, to think that that she had inherited someone’s  _ teeth _ , but there they were, shining back up at her.

When Violet had looked her fill, she flipped the photograph over to see if there was anything written on the back. She’d hoped for something simple, like a date, but found much more than that. Written in her mother’s hand, it read:

 

_ June 21st, 1979 First Anniversary _

 

_ Silver? Moony  _ —  _ you shouldn’t have! I shall think fondly of you whenever I wear it. _

_ Lots of love, _

_ Lily _

 

Violet felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

It was not her mother’s signature that had knocked the wind from her lungs, nor the words of love — it was the name, the original giver of the gift.

_ Moony. _

Tracey staggered out of the way as Violet flung herself to her feet, clutching both the the comb and the photo in her right hand. She tore open the drawer of her bedside table, stuck her arm in all the way to the back where the hid her most secret possessions, and pulled out the folded Marauder’s Map. She threw it down on the bed and opened it.

“What’s that?” Tracey said, stepping closer again, only to be pushed out of the way as Violet reached for her wand.

“Move,” she muttered distractedly. With the tip of her wand placed on the surface of the rumpled, blank piece of parchment, Violet said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

All across the page, black ink spread like spider webs from the point of her wand to the very edges of the corners. A complete map of Hogwarts appeared before her eyes, and Violet couldn’t care less. Even as Tracey gasped from beside her, Violet’s eyes were fixed solely on the head of the page, waiting for the words she knew in her heart would already be there.

 

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers

are proud to present

The Marauder’s Map

 

There it was, right where she knew it would be. That name.  _ Moony _ . 

Moony, Moony,  _ Moony _ .

Who on  _ earth _ was Moony? He made the map, his name was on it, but his name was on this photograph of her mother, written in her mother’s handwriting, written  _ to _ Moony —  _ who _ was Moony?

“What is this?” Tracey said, peering curiously over Violet’s shoulder. “Is that . . .  _ Hogwarts _ ? Where did you get a map of Hogwarts?”

Violet snatched the map back from the bed and reached for her robes, which she hastily pulled on over her pajamas.

“I need to talk to Harry,” she muttered, and ran from the dormitory with Tracey shouting after her.

Violet took the stairs out of the dungeons two at a time and emerged, panting, into the entrance hall. The doors to the Great Hall were open in front of her, and Violet was three steps inside before she stopped, eyes wide, and took in her surroundings.

All of the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were already seated, along with one other student, an extremely nervous looking first-year.

“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore loudly as he caught sight of Violet. “Good morning, Violet! How good of you to join us! Come, sit down, sit down!”

Violet was suddenly, tragically, aware of what a mess she looked. Her hair was frazzled from sleep and hadn’t been combed or freshly braided; her robes were hanging oddly, as she was still wearing her pajamas beneath them; worst of all, she realized as she timidly walked forward, was the fact she was still barefoot.

Face flushed red hot and heart pounding wildly, Violet sank down into the empty seat in between one of the first years and Professor Flitwick, who smiled brightly at her.

“What have you got there, Potter?” he asked, nodding to the crumpled parchment in her hand — the Marauder’s Map, which she had forgotten to wipe.

“Nothing!” Violet said, hastily shoving the whole thing into her pocket. “Nothing, sir — just a bit of scratch paper.”

Violet also managed to tuck the comb and the photo of her mother into her other pocket before anyone else could see them. The last thing she wanted was to have such a conversation in front of half her professors and a few strangers. No, what she had was for Harry’s eyes and ears only.

“Ah, more guests!” Dumbledore cried. Violet looked up to see Tracey and Cassius drawing up short as they entered the Great Hall, looking just as winded and flustered as she had. With Dumbledore waving them over, there was nothing the two of them could do except walk the rest of the way into the hall and took the last two seats at the table.

“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Professor Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Violet, remembering the boggart, kept her expression carefully neutral; Professor Snape’s mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard’s hat at once.

“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.

As Violet was helping herself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. A woman that she had never seen before glided toward them, as though on wheels. She wore a green sequined dress which, in addition to the oversized spectacles that crowded most of her thin face, made her look rather like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

“Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore, standing up.

“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said the woman in a very misty, faraway voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoned my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness . . .”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.” Let me draw you up a chair —”

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. The woman, however, who Violet now suspected to be the mysterious Professor Trelawney that Harry had so often complained about, did not sit down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

“I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!”

“We’ll risk it, Sibyll,” said Professor McGonagall impatiently. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting cold.”

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.

“Tripe, Sibyll?”

Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, “But where is dear Professor Lupin?”

“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day.”

“But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

Violet, who had just taken a large bite of glazed ham, choked. Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, this his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him —”

“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.

“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, “that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Professor Snape, and Violet’s gaze snapped to him. For an instant she could have sworn his black eyes glittered knowingly in her direction, but then it was directed right back down at the nearly-empty plate in front of him.

“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and about in no time . . . Derek, have you have you had any of the chipolatas? They’re excellent.”

The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later. Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and unable to contain herself any longer, Violet started to rise to her feet and get her brother’s attention when Professor Trelawney let out a loud shriek.

“No, my dear!” she cried, hand extended dramatically in Violet’s direction. “Be not the first to rise, lest Death set its cold sights on your young soul!”

Violet dropped immediately back into her seat, hard enough to rattle the silverware in front of her and stared, wide-eyed at Professor Trelawney. Professor McGonagall sighed loudly.

“Potter,” she said shortly, both hands flat on the table, and Violet’s eyes swivelled in her direction, “you are free to leave this table whenever you like, and you have my word that unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the entrance hall, you will come to no harm.”

A chuckle went up around the table, despite the tension. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted. Violet, however, remained frozen in her seat.

“We’ll go first,” said Ron suddenly, tapping Harry on the arm; the two of them got up from the table at the same time. Violet practically jumped to her feet as well.

“I’m coming, too,” she said, trying to block out the way her chair scraped noisily across the floor and all the strange looks she was attracting.

Hermione, Tracey, and Cass remained at the table, all looking bewildered. Violet followed Harry and Ron into the entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad axe-men.

When they were far enough from the doors to the Great Hall, Violet grabbed her brother’s sleeve and tried to pull him aside.

“I need to show you something important,” she said quietly, trying to keep Ron from hearing.

“I want to show you something, too!” Harry said, loudly and enthusiastically, destroying that idea. He further disrupted Violet’s plans by grabbing hold of her in turn and practically dragging her with him to the Gryffindor common room.

“Wait till you see it,” Ron said, grinning at her. Violet didn’t know what “it” was and neither did she care; it couldn’t possibly be as important as what  _ she _ had. 

When they reached the portrait hole, the little knight that Violet had seen dozing the other night was now awake and enjoying a Christmas part with a couple of monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts, and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted them with a flagon of mead.

“Merry — hic — Christmas! Password?”

“Scurvy cur,” said Ron.

“And the same to you, sir!” roared the knight as the painting swung forward to admit them.

Harry ran straight up to his dormitory without a word, leaving Violet and Ron standing in the common room below; Ron was practically bouncing with excitement.

“Just you  _ wait _ ,” he said to Violet. She thought, perhaps, for a brief moment, that Harry might have received a gift just as special and spectacular as her own — a keepsake from their father, perhaps, or more photographs of both their parents together. But those hopes were dashed the moment Harry reappeared at the top of the stairs, doing a very poor job of concealing something behind his back. He skipped awkwardly down the stairs and presented his gift dramatically.

“A broomstick?” Violet said, staring at the thing on proud display in Harry’s hands. Harry and Ron both reacted as if Violet had threatened them with a knife.

“It’s not  _ just _ a broomstick,” Ron said hoarsely. “It’s a  _ Firebolt _ . It’s the fas-”

“— the fastest broom in the world, yes, I know,” said Violet impatiently; she’d seen the thing often enough in Diagon Alley, reading and rereading the little plaque that sat beneath it to stop herself from going mad with boredom. “Who sent it to you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, gazing at the stick in wonder, even though he must have spent hours looking at it already. “There wasn’t a name, or a card . . .”

“I still reckon it was Lupin,” said Ron smartly. “He likes Harry, and he was away when Harry’s Nimbus got smashed, he might’ve heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and get this for him —”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Violet, who knew perfectly well that Lupin likely couldn’t afford to put a proper roof over his head, let alone buy a top of the line broomstick for a student he’d barely just met. Her tone must have been sharper than she’d meant, because Ron suddenly looked hurt; only Violet was too annoyed to really care at the moment. She’d  _ told _ Harry that she had something important to show him, and he’d cut her off for this? For a  _ broom _ ? She had just opened her mouth, ready to give her brother a proper piece of her mind, when the portrait hole opened again and in came Hermione, accompanied by Professor McGonagall.

Violet had never seen a professor enter a House common room before, and apparently neither had Harry and Ron because they looked just as shocked as she was. They all stared at her, both boys holding onto the Firebolt. Hermione walked around them, sat down, picked up the nearest book, and hid her face behind it.

“So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily, walking over to the fireside and staring at the Firebolt. “Miss Granger has just informed me that you have been sent a broomstick, Potter.”

They all three looked around at Hermione. They could see her forehead reddening over the top of her book, which was upside down.

“May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of Harry and Ron’s hands. She examined it carefully from handle to twig-ends. “Hmm. And there was no note at all, Potter? No care? No message of any kind?”

“Er, no,” said Harry blankly. “I was just — just showing it to Violet.”

“To  _ Violet _ ?” said Professor McGonagall. “What do you —”

She looked around at Violet, standing beside her brother, and gasped as though she’d only just noticed her.

“Miss Potter!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall, startling Violet. “What — what on  _ earth _ are you doing here, in this common room? Who allowed you in here?”

“Er —” Violet said, now very nervous, glancing frantically between Harry and Ron. 

“I did,” said Harry at once, and McGonagall rounded on him once more. Braver than Violet by far, Harry did not falter under her incredulous gaze. “I wanted to show her my new broomstick without anyone else fussing over it. Besides, Sir Cadogan changes the password about three times a day, professor — it won’t happen again.”

Professor McGonagall’s mouth was doing the thing where it disappeared into a thin, hard line. Violet wished that  _ she _ could be the one hiding behind a book instead of Hermione.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for flagrant disrespect of House boundaries,” said Professor McGonagall, and both Harry and Ron’s mouths fell open in shock, “and I’m afraid I will have to take this, Potter.”

She hefted the Firebolt in her hands.

“W — what?” said Harry, going bug-eyed. “Why?”

“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor McGonagall. “Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it down —”

“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor McGonagall was mad.

“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said Professor McGonagall. “You will have it back if we are sure it is jinx-free.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly. “Honestly, Professor —”

“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question until we are certain that it has not been tampered with. I shall keep you informed. Miss Potter — would you come with me, please, dear? I’m afraid I cannot, in good conscious, allow you to remain here. And if Professor Snape were to ever find out that these walls had been breached by a member of  _ his _ House . . .”

McGonagall’s mouth went all thin again, but somehow Violet knew that ire wasn’t entirely directed at her. Nonetheless, she had no choice but follow Professor McGonagall’s lead out of the portrait hole, looking sadly back at Harry and Ron as she went. The portrait of Sir Cadogan hadn’t yet finished swinging into place when Ron began shouting. If Professor McGonagall heard this, she elected to ignore it.

They reached the bottom of the steps when Professor McGonagall stopped, looking around suspiciously, and then turned to Violet, who gulped.

“Not a word to Severus about this,” Professor McGonagall said sternly, “understood?”

Stunned, Violet nodded meekly. She could have sworn McGonagall winked at her.

“Good girl. Off you go.”


	12. The Patronus Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

It wasn’t until the next day that Violet learned exactly why Professor McGonagall had taken Harry’s new broom away. Hermione feared — and Professor McGonagall agreed with her — that there was a chance the broom had been sent to Harry by Sirius Black.

The thought was as frightening as it was ridiculous. First Sirius Black had broken into the castle to murder Harry, and now he was supposedly sending him Christmas presents? How would Black have gotten his hands on the money to buy a Firebolt? How could he have had it delivered? The whole idea didn’t sit well with Violet, but it was enough to spook her off of telling anyone about the mysterious gift  _ she’d _ received.

While still desperate to confer with Harry on the identity of Moony, she was even more desperate to remain in possession of the beautiful silver comb and the faded photograph of her mother. Violet kept them in the back of her bedside table, hidden beneath bits of pocket lint and holey socks, so that anyone who might come looking through her things might be put off and abandon the search. Tracey had already seen everything, however; after lunch she cornered Violet and demanded an explanation, and Violet had no choice but to show her the Marauder’s Map and the connection to the mysterious Moony she’d found on the back of her mother’s photo. At first, Tracey was very upset about being kept out of the loop — but with a bit of convincing, and no small amount of pleading, Violet finally persuaded her to keep everything quiet between the two of them. 

In the end, Violet was glad to have at least one person to talk to things about because Harry, as usual, was being insufferable about his broomstick.

While he grudgingly acknowledged that Hermione meant well, that didn’t stop him from being angry with her; Ron, too, was downright furious. As far as he was concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new Firebolt was nothing less than critical damage. The two of them had been so short with her as of late that Hermione had started avoiding the Gryffindor common room, which Violet only knew about due to how much time she herself had been spending there. Breaking his promise to Professor McGonagall the very next day, Harry had brought her inside to join him and Ron around the fire. She made the mistake of bringing Crookshanks with her one morning — Ron furiously demanded the cat be kicked out before it could kill Scabbers. While Violet stood up for Crookshanks, Harry did  _ not _ stand up for her. With furious tears in her eyes, Violet grabbed her cat round the middle and stormed from the Gryffindor common room, never to return again. She took a leaf from Hermione’s book and holed up in the library instead. They saw each other often enough between the shelves, but neither girl quite worked up the nerve to go up and speak to the other. Hermione was  _ Harry’s _ friend, after all. And Violet had her own work to be doing in the library.

Back to poring over old copies of the  _ Daily Prophet _ , Violet threw herself into finding out everything she could about Sirius Black’s arrest and imprisonment. She put Tracey’s quill and journal to good use, filling page after page with information about Black — his age, where his family was from, little snippets of information found in comments from old school friends and acquaintances. Black came from a very old, very wealthy Pureblood family, Violet learned, and was the last of his line; his family had innumerable ties to the Dark Arts dating back centuries. His parents had been very vocal in their support of Voldemort. People who’d gone to school with him remembered Sirius Black as both brilliant and talented, particularly when it came to dueling. What really surprised Violet, however, was just how many people said they couldn’t believe what Black had done. That he, of all people, had gone to the Dark side.

What sort of man had he been to have everyone so thoroughly fooled? How charming could he have possibly been to  _ blindside _ his supposed best friends?

Another interesting tidbit that Violet came across was that Sirius Black had had no formal trial; he was deemed insane upon his arrest and promptly sent to Azkaban without further inquiry. That sounded all well and good, considering how many witnesses were there to point the finger at Black, and how the only other wizard at the scene, Peter Pettigrew, had been blown to pieces and couldn’t testify — but hearing about things like that always left a sour taste in Violet’s mouth. Uncle Vernon’s solution for dealing with all criminals, from murderers to petty thieves, was to hang them. Somehow she’d hoped the magical law community would be better about that sort of thing.

Despite how much sleep she was losing, Violet continued her information hunt right up until the rest of the school returned shortly after New Years, and the Slytherin dungeons became crowded and noisy once again.

 

The very first class of the new term was Care of Magical Creatures. The last thing anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and they spent a delightful lesson collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The first Arithmancy lesson of the new term was much less fun; Professor Vector was now teaching them about social numbers, and she lost no time in making Violet feel yet again that she was only getting half of her own story.

It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Violet was keen to get to; she and Harry both remained after class, bouncing excitedly on the balls of their feet while they waited for everyone else to trickle out.

“Ah, yes,” said Professor Lupin, when the twins reminded him of his promise to help them with the dementors. “Let me see . . . how about eight o’clock on Friday evening?”

“I can’t,” Violet said at once, “I’ve got detention.”

“ _ Detention _ ?” said Harry, aghast. “It’s only the first day back, how’ve you got a detention already?”

“I got caught skiving off Arithmancy,” Violet lied quickly, trying to make herself look like she felt guilty about it. She glanced up at Professor Lupin. “Er — it won’t happen again, sir.”

“I’m sure it won’t, Violet,” Lupin said, smiling. “Just out of curiosity, who is it you’ll be serving your detention with?”

“Professor Snape — he’s the one who caught me.”

Harry made a noise of disgust, which earned him a reproachful look from Professor Lupin, who said, “I’ll have a word with Severus on your behalf, see if I can convince him to reschedule —”

“No!” Violet said, a bit too forcefully, and both Harry and Lupin stared at her. “I mean — it’s my fault for skipping class, and I don’t want him to take more House points away and — and no offense, sir, but if Professor Snape were to think I  _ asked _ you to get me out of detention, I think that would only make him angrier. He doesn’t . . .” Violet glanced at her brother, hoping he might back her up. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much, does he?”

“Snape doesn’t like anyone, except for you and Malfoy,” Harry said bitterly, missing the point but not the mark. “I can’t believe he gave you detention, Vi — on the first day back! And what were you doing skipping Arithmancy in the first place? I thought you liked that class.”

This little lie was rapidly spiraling out of control. Violet deeply regretted coming up with it in the first place, but what else was she meant to do? While Professor Snape had never expressly forbidden her from talking about the private lessons she was receiving, Violet knew that he didn’t want her spreading word of it around. The last thing she wanted was to upset Professor Snape; would he stop the lessons if she told anyone about them? Would he get in trouble with Dumbledore for favouring students?

At any rate, she was too deep into it now. Violet quickly composed her face into something less panicked and more neutral. Professor Lupin was looking at her oddly.

“Very well, then . . . how about Thursday evening, same time? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough . . . I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this . . . We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to practice on . . .”

“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” Violet heard Ron say as they walked down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you reckon’s the matter with him?”

There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was so full of books it wouldn’t close.

“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron irritably.

“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.

“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s wrong with Professor Lupin, and you —”

“Well, isn’t it  _ obvious _ ?” said Hermione, with a look of extreme superiority.

“No,” Violet said loudly, looking pointedly at her, “it  _ isn’t _ , Granger.”

Hermione turned to her, stunned. Violet saw the understanding click in Hermione’s eyes as she glared at her — they both  _ knew _ .

“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, though Violet didn’t miss the way she swallowed under her cold glare, and she marched off.

“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her again.”

 

At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Violet left the dungeons for the History of Magic classroom. Harry was already there, sitting awkwardly on a desk with his wand in his hand when Violet arrived, but there was no sign of Professor Lupin until five minutes later. He turned up carrying a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binn’s desk. Both Violet and Harry crowded curiously around it.

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak; it was hard not to notice how painfully thin he was without it. “I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real dementor. The boggart will turn into a dementor when he sees you, Harry, so you’ll both be able to practice on him. I can store him in my office when we’re not using him; there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”

“You sound like Hagrid,” Violet teased kindly. Professor Lupin smiled.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Violet, thank you. So . . .” Lupin took out his wand, and indicated that they should do the same. “The spell I am going to try and teach you is highly advanced magic — well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”

“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.

“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the dementor.”

Violet immediately envisioned herself crouching behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large shield. Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon — hope, happiness, the desire to survive — but it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it. But I must warn you both that that the charm might be too advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have difficulty with it.”

“What does a Patronus look like?” said Violet curiously.

“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”

“And how do you conjure it?” asked Violet.

“With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory.”

Violet cast her mind about for a happy memory. Certainly, nothing that had happened to her at the Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, she settled on the moment when she’d run into Tracey at Gringotts the year before.

“Right,” said Harry beside her, looking determined but very nervous.

“The incantation is this —” Professor Lupin cleared his throat. “ _ Expecto patronum _ !”

“ _ Expecto patronum _ ,” repeated Harry and Violet under their breath, “ _ expecto patronum _ . . .”

“Concentrating hard on your happy memories?”

“Oh — yeah —” said Violet, doubling down on recalling that moment of joy at finding her new friend. “ _ Expecto patronum  _ —  _ expecto _ —”

Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of her wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas. 

“Did I do it?” she gasped, looking wide-eyed to Lupin. “Was that it?”

“It was,” said Lupin, smiling. “Now, Violet, since you’ve told me you don’t expect the boggart to take the shape of a dementor, we’re going to have to rely on Harry for this — he will stand in front of the boggart so that it focuses on him, and we’ll have you stand to the side, just here, and practice from a distance. Does that sound good to you two?”

Violet was in the process of nodding when Harry, who had still been mumbling the spell under his breath the whole time Lupin was speaking, gasped loudly as a similar cloud of silver sprung from the tip of his wand as well.

“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “I did it, too!”

“Very good,” said Lupin, grinning now. “Right, then — ready to try it on a dementor?”

“Yes,” said the twins together, both gripping their wands tightly as they moved into position. Harry stood in the middle of the deserted classroom, right in front of the trunk, while Violet stood off the side where Professor Lupin had indicated. Her heart was already hammering in her chest; she tried to keep the feeling of happiness in her mind, but something else kept intruding . . . Would Harry be alright facing down the boggart? Even though it wasn’t a true dementor, would it still affect them the way the real creatures did?

“Are you ready, Violet?” asked Professor Lupin, drawing her back to the present. Violet gave a curt nod.

“Yes, sir.”

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out. The dementor glided from the box and started to sweep silently forward, drawing a deep, rattling breath. Even at this distance, a wave of piercing cold broke over Violet —

“ _ Expecto patronum _ !” she yelled, taking a brave step forward. “ _ Expecto patronum! Expecto  _ — _ ” _

The dementor turned its sightless gaze toward her, and Violet was falling again through thick white fog, her mother’s voice louder than ever, echoing inside her head — “ _ Not my children! Not them! Please  _ —  _ I’ll do anything  _ —”

“ _ Stand aside. Stand aside, girl! _ ”

“Violet!”

Violet jerked back to life. She was lying flat on her back on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again. She didn’t have to ask what had happened.

“Sorry,” she muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck.

“Are you alright?” said Lupin.

“Yeah . . .” Violet started to pull herself up, but was beat to it by her brother, who looked just as shaken as she was, taking hold of her hand and pulling. Harry helped her over to one of the desks and they both leaned heavily against it.

“Here —” Lupin handed them each a Chocolate Frog. “Eat those before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it the first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”

“I heard her again,” Violet muttered, biting off the Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder than last time — and him — Voldemort —”

Lupin looked paler than usual.

“Violet . . . Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand —”

“We do!” said Harry and Violet together, again. Harry stuffed the rest of the Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if the dementors turn up at our match against Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose this game we’ve lost the Quidditch cup! Let me have a go while Violet rests.”

“All right then . . .” said Lupin. “You might want to select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to concentrate on . . . It’s very important that the memory is  _ strong _ .”

Violet, who thought that her memory  _ had _ been strong enough, quietly bowed her head in shame and embarrassment, and took another nibble of her Frog. Harry took up his position in the middle of the classroom once more.

“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.

“Ready,” said Harry.

“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went icily cold and dark once more. The dementor glided forward, drawing its breathing; one rotting hand was extending toward Harry —

“ _ Expecto patronum _ !” Harry yelled. “ _ Expecto patronum _ !  _ Expecto pat  _ —”

Harry’s entire body went rigid; he swayed where he stood, his eyes rolling back up into his head, and Violet let out a scream as she watched her brother take a single, staggered step backwards before collapsing. Professor Lupin jumped in front of the dementor.

“ _ Riddikulus _ !” Violet heard him yell, but didn’t bother to see what form the boggart took. She was already at Harry’s side, shaking him.

“Harry?  _ Harry _ !” Violet called, gripping Harry’s shoulders and then his face, holding his cheeks between her shaking hands. His eyes were still closed, rolling wildly in their sockets; she’d heard the  _ thud _ as his head hit the floor. His skin was cold as ice.  _ “Harry _ !” Violet shouted again, and slapped him.

Harry came to with a sharp gasp. For a long moment he just stared, unseeing, at the ceiling above him — and then his eyes seemed to come back into focus and settled on Violet’s face.

“I heard our dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him — he tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give our mum time to run for it . . .”

The air knocked itself from Violet’s lungs. She stared at Harry as he heaved himself into a sitting position, trying to hide the tears on his face from her; Violet was both unable and unwilling to mask her own tears.

“What did he sound like?” she asked, her voice trembling. Harry shrugged unhelpfully. “Harry,  _ please _ — I’ve never heard him before —”

“I don’t — I don’t know,” said Harry, wiping his face with his sleeve. “It’s hard to explain . . .”

“You head James?” said Professor Lupin’s voice, and both of them looked up to see him standing over them. The boggart was gone, and the lamps around the room had been re-lit. There was an odd expression on Lupin’s face.

“Did you know him?” Violed asked. “Did you know our dad?”

“I — I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Violet, Harry — perhaps we should leave it here for tonight. This charm is ridiculously advanced . . . I shouldn’t have suggested putting you through this . . .”

“No!” said the twins, in unison for the third time that night. Harry hauled himself to his feet.

“Let us have one more go,” he said, grabbing hold of Violet’s hand. “Together — maybe we weren’t thinking of happy enough things, but — but if maybe if we  _ both _ try —”

Harry turned to Violet and gave her hand a firm squeeze. There was a look of fierce determination blazing in his eyes, and the strength of it inspired her as well. Yes, she would see this through with him. They were always stronger together, always able to lift one another higher than either of them could go alone. They could do this.  _ Would _ do this.

“C’mon,” Violet said, squeezing Harry’s hand in return. They both walked over to face the packing case once more.

“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were doing this against his better judgement. “Concentrating hard? Alright — go!”

He pulled the lid off the case for the third time, and the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and dark —

“ _ EXPECTO PATRONUM _ !” Harry and Violet bellowed, their voices perfectly twined.  _ “EXPECTO PATRONUM _ ! _ EXPECTO PATRONUM _ !”

The screaming inside Violet’s head had started again — except this time, it sounded as though it were coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder and softer again — and she could still see the dementor — it had halted — she could feel the warmth of Harry’s hand clenched tightly in her own — and then a pair of huge, silver shadows came bursting out of the end of their wands, to hover between them and the dementor, and though Violet’s legs felt like water, she and Harry were still on their feet — though for how much longer, she wasn’t sure —

“ _ Riddikulus _ !” roared Lupin, springing forward.

There was a loud crack, and the cloudy forms of their Patronuses vanished along with the dementor; Violet and Harry finally broke apart, both staggering back to find something to support them. Violet sank onto the top of a desk, feeling exhausted as if she’d just run a mile, and felt her legs shaking. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a silvery orb. Once, Violet might have mistaken it for a cloudy crystal ball, rather than the obvious image of a full moon.

“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry and Violet were sat. “Excellent, both of you! That was a definite start!”

“Can we have another go?” said Harry, grinning over at Violet. “Just one more?”

“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for one night. Here —”

He handed each of them a large bar of Honeydukes’ best chocolate.

“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood. Same time next week?”

“Okay,” said Harry, immediately taking a large bite of the chocolate. Violet broke off a corner and chewed eagerly, watching Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. As she chewed and felt the renewed warmth flow through her, easing her frazzled nerves, a sudden thought occured to her.

“Professor Lupin?” she said. “If you knew our dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black as well?”

Lupin turned very quickly.

“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.

“They were friends at Hogwarts, too,” Violet said, breaking off another piece of chocolate with a small snap. “Or so we’ve heard . . .”

Lupin’s face relaxed.

“Yes,  I knew him,” he said shortly. “Or I thought I did. You’d both better be off, it’s getting late.”

Harry and Violet left the classroom together but quickly split ways, heading sluggishly toward their separate dormitories with little more than a grunted, “G’night.” Violet wandered blearily toward the dungeons.

She wished she hadn’t mentioned Sirius Black. Lupin obviously wasn’t keen on the subject, not that she could blame him. If one of  _ her _ schoolmates grew up to be a mass-murderer Violed reckoned she wouldn’t much like talking about it, either. Maybe one day the  _ Daily Prophet _ would come knocking on her door, asking for quotes about what Draco Malfoy was like as a boy. But then Violet’s thoughts wandered back to her mother and father . . .

She felt drained and strangely empty, even though she was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was, she couldn’t help but feel jealous of Harry’s experience with the false dementor — Violet had  _ never _ heard her father’s voice before, never even given much thought to the concept of what her dad might sound like. An awful thought occurred to her, that next lesson she might not try as hard as she ought to to repel the dementor, so that she, too, might be able to hear her father’s last moments.

But that thought was quickly dispelled by both her own common sense and current exhaustion. Shaking her head clear of such dark ideas, Violet crammed the last bit of chocolate into her mouth and headed down the steps to the Slytherin common room.

 

The next evening, Violet arrived a few minutes early to the Potions classroom, just in time to watch Professor Snape add the finishing lines of text to the blackboard at the front of the room. An intimidatingly long list of directions was spelled out in his crooked handwriting, and Violet drew up short at the sight of the number of ingredients already laid out on the desk.

“What’s all this for, sir?” she asked, approaching cautiously. Professor Snape straightened up and looked over his shoulder at her.

“Tonight you will be a brewing a Draught of Peace,” he told her. “This is a very complex potion, Potter, and I believe it to be the perfect measure of your skill level.” Professor Snape turned to face her and pointed to the directions on the board. “Each step must be followed precisely, and each ingredient must be added in the correct amount and at the right time; any mistakes can lead to catastrophic failure that may harm you, as the brewer, or the person unfortunate enough to imbibe your failed product. Tell me — what dangers can you identify that may befall this potion?”

Violet hastily stepped forward to get a better look at both the blackboard and the array of ingredient laid out before her.

“Hellebore is toxic,” she said at once, noting the pile of dark, tapered leaves on the desk. “I suppose adding too much would poison the drinker, or — or cause some adverse reaction, at least. And moonstone is used in a lot of powerful potions for emotional effects like euphoria and false love. Adding too much of that might cause someone to go mad?”

She looked up at Professor Snape; he nodded slightly, though his expression was impassive.

“Very good, Miss Potter,” he said quietly. “Perhaps these lessons haven’t been a waste of my time after all.” Violet flushed angrily and quickly looked away. Snape gave his wand a silent flick and blue flames sprang to life beneath the cauldron. He stowed his wand once more and took a step back. “You have ninety minutes, Potter. Begin.”

Violet was thirty minutes into the brewing process — her potion had just turned a lovely shade of turquoise — when the door to the classroom creaked open and Professor Lupin stuck his head inside.

“Ah, there you are, Severus,” he said brightly, opening the door the rest of the way. “I thought I might find you here.”

“It  _ is _ my classroom,” said Professor Snape coolly. “What do you want, Lupin? As you can see, I am rather busy.”

“Ah, yes, I  _ can _ see that — good evening, Violet. How’s your detention going?”

Violet, who was now standing awkwardly next the cauldron, doing nothing while she waited for her potion to simmer, smiled nervously at Professor Lupin. In the back of her mind, she silently ran through all the different swear words she knew.

“Don’t tell me you’ve stopped by for a chat, Lupin,” Snape snapped, glaring. “What  _ is _ it?”

“Actually, Severus,” Lupin said, now turning that disarming smile of his directly at Professor Snape, “a chat is exactly what I’ve stopped by for. I wanted a word with you about Violet’s attendance —” Violet’s head snapped up “— as you’re her Head of House.”

“Attendance?” repeated Professor Snape sharply. “What about her attendance?”

“Well, mentioned you’d caught her skipping out on her last Arithmancy lesson. Isn’t that what she’s here serving a detention for?”

Professor Snape’s black eyes slid toward Violet, standing stock-still next to the simmering cauldron, and she felt a wave of cold wash over her insides. 

“Indeed,” said Professor Snape slowly, his gaze lingering on her just long enough to drive another spike of ice into her heart. He returned to his attention to Professor Lupin and said, “Though I fail to see how that’s any concern of yours, Lupin. Miss Potter is my student, and therefore my responsibility. The issue is being handled.”

“I can see that,” said Lupin, still smiling. He stepped carefully past Professor Snape and approached Violet’s cauldron, taking a measured look at its contents and the array of components laid out on the desk. He squinted over at the list of instructions on the blackboard. 

“A Draught of Peace isn’t it, Severus?” Professor Lupin said, turning back to look over his shoulder. Snape was standing exactly where Lupin had left him, looking very much like he wanted to throttle the man.

“Very astute, Lupin,” said Snape through clenched teeth, “especially considering your abysmal Potions knowledge.”

Lupin chuckled.

“Yes, you’d know about that better than most, wouldn’t you? True as that unfortunately is, I don’t think I could ever forget my disastrous O.W.L. performance on the subject — I assume you don’t have this problem, Severus, but I had a hard time finding anything peaceful about brewing a Draught of Peace.” Upon seeing the look of confusion on Violet’s face, Professor Lupin turned back to her said mildly, “Professor Snape and I were in school together, Violet. We were often paired together during Potions’ lessons, much to his annoyance. This is a very advanced potion he’s got you working on, you know.”

Violet stared at Professor Snape. He and Lupin had gone to school together? But that would mean —

She remembered suddenly what Professor Dumbledore had told her and Harry at the end of their very first at Hogwarts, sitting beside them in the hospital wing; Professor Snape had gone to school with their father. Their father had, somehow, saved Professor Snape’s life. All this time she’d been so caught up with Sirius Black being friends with her dad, it had never occured to Violet that a treasure trove of information might be, quite literally, standing right in front of her.

“Add your porcupine quills,” Snape barked at her, causing Violet to jerk back into action. Her hands shook as she rattled the powdered porcupine quills in their jar, allowing them to activate before sprinkling them carefully across the bubbling purple surface of her potion. She quickly began to stir; seven times clockwise, then seven times anti-clockwise. Violet was painfully aware of the eyes of both her professors on her the whole time she worked. 

“Not that it’s my place to criticize your methods, Severus—” Lupin started.

“No,” Professor Snape interrupted at once, “it isn’t.”

“— but I wonder what you’re trying to accomplish by setting Violet such a difficult task,” Professor Lupin continued, undeterred. “This is a fifth year potion, if I’m not mistaken. As a third year, don’t you think it’s a little beyond her level?”

“She can handle it,” Professor Snape said curtly, and Violet had to duck behind the steam coming off her cauldron to hide the sudden flush of pride that lit up her cheeks. She added more porcupine quills, stirring with her other hand until the surface of the potion returned to a cool, glassy turquoise.

The next hour passed in tense semi-silence. Professor Lupin remained, even going so far as to take a seat as he chatted idly with an increasingly irritated Professor Snape; their conversation was awkward at best and downright hostile at worst, and Violet kept her head bowed low over her work so as not to get in trouble for eavesdropping. Though Lupin’s tone was polite and familiar, it was a familiarity that Professor Snape did not seem to share. Out of the corner of her eye Violet could see his pale hands clench and unclench, over and over, as though itching to reach out and wring Professor Lupin’s scrawny neck. But  _ why _ he hated Lupin so much, she could only guess. If they’d known each other as children then there was a potential laundry list of grudges that Snape could be holding. Had Lupin cheated off his homework one time too many? Lupin looked to hold no ill-will toward  _ him _ ; had there been a falling out?

Whatever the reason, Violet knew she couldn’t focus on both baseless theories and the complex brew in front of her. With Snape’s mood souring by the minute, and having just received no small praise from him, Violet was determined not to disappoint him with any mistakes.

After her potion had turned itself a lovely, milky white, Violet knew she had to lower the temperature and wait precisely seven minutes for the mixture to cool enough that she could add the final component. The ancient clock in the back of the room, however, was too far away to read clearly. If she misjudged the timing even a little . . .

“What is it, Potter?” Professor Snape asked, startling her. “Why are you just standing there like a dunderhead?”

“Sorry, sir,” Violet said quickly. “I can’t — I can’t read the clock from here, and your instructions say to time this part. Have you got a — a watch I could borrow, or —”

“Here,” said Professor Lupin, getting to his feet. “You can use mine.”

He reached into the pocket of his shabby robes and produced a very old, very tarnished, heavily scratched pocket watch. The glass cover was cracked and water-stained, but the little clock face inside looked to be ticking reliably.

“It’s a bit rough looking, I’m afraid,” Lupin said, smiling apologetically, “but it’s never failed me in all the years I’ve had it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Violet said, setting the watch carefully on the desk, where she could keep an eye on it. “I’ll be careful not to splash anything on it.”

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, looking down his nose at the battered old watch.

“Silver, Lupin?” he said silkily. “What an . . .  _ interesting  _ choice.”

“It was my father’s, once,” Professor Lupin said mildly as he resumed his seat. “I inherited it when I came of age. I’m afraid I haven’t always been kind to it . . .”

Snape’s mouth pressed into a thin, knowing smile. Violet steadily avoided his gaze; she was certain that Professor Snape was out to bully Professor Lupin for his condition, and she wanted no part in it. Nor, however, did she feel brave enough to stand up to him. Instead she kept her gaze fixed on the second hand, watching it tick round and round as she counted down the minutes until the potion was cool enough.

Finally, Violet picked up the little round bottle of syrup of hellebore and, after one last glance at the pocket watch, carefully shook out seven identical droplets into the cauldron. As soon as the seventh drop splashed into its surface the mixture turned from opaque white to a translucent, shimmering silver, emitting a slight vapor of the same colour. 

“Yes!” Violet cheered, clenching in her fist in satisfaction. She looked up and immediately went red when she saw that both professors were still watching her. Professor Lupin was also grinning at her display of excitement, but Snape’s expression was as tense and unclear as usual. Violet quickly stepped back to let him step in front of her cauldron and have a look for himself.

“The colour is correct,” he said quietly, “though the consistency is thinner than it ought to be. You didn’t properly activate the porcupine quills before adding them.”

That knocked some of the wind out of Violet’s sails. She swallowed to hide her disappointment, and watched anxiously as Professor Snape collected a small amount of the potion into a little spoon then, from in his pocket, produced a tiny, live white mouse.

“Severus, is that really necessary?” said Professor Lupin at once, standing up again.

“Yes, it is,” Snape muttered, spooning several drops down the mouse’s throat as Violet looked on, frozen with anxiety. “Don’t tax that soft heart of yours, Lupin — assuming Miss Potter has brewed this Draught of Peace correctly, the mouse will experience a calming sensation, followed by a wave of drowsiness.”

“And if I did it wrong?” Violet squeaked, staring at the little mouse in Professor Snape’s palm. Snape looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Then the mouse will fall into a deep, permanent sleep, and you will spend the next hour and a half starting over until you get it right.”

“Really, Severus, it’s already the middle of the —”

Professor Snape held up a finger, quieting Lupin. The three of them all stared silently at the mouse, waiting.

After what felt like ages, the little mouse stopped squeaking and opened its pink mouth in a wide yawn. When Professor Snape opened his hand the mouse remained quite calmly in his palm, whiskers twitching, before settling down, closing its eyes, and beginning to snore.

“Oh, no . . .” Violet murmured, covering her mouth with both hands as she began to cry. “Oh,  _ no _ , I’ve killed it . . .”

“Save your tears, Potter, for once,” Professor Snape sighed, and gave the mouse a sharp jab with his finger. At once, the creature let out a sharp squeak and opened its eyes. He held it out to Violet and pressed it into her shaking hands. “There, girl, you haven’t killed it yet. You have a cat, do you not? Might as well give it a treat to celebrate your accomplishment.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Violet said, because she didn’t know what else  _ to _ say. She was now crying and holding a mouse, which was fast asleep in her hands. It took her a moment to realize that Professor Lupin was clapping.

“Well done, Violet!” he said brightly, coming over to inspect the successful Draught of Peace for himself. “You should be very proud of yourself — this potion has stumped many an exam-taker, and here you’ve brewed it perfectly on your very first try!”

“Not  _ perfectly _ ,” Professor Snape pointed out, though he was no longer frowning. “Remember to take care with your preparations, Potter. It is not enough to be ‘nearly perfect’ when you could just as easily achieve perfection with a little more attention paid, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Violet said at once.

“Good. Go to bed. And Potter?”

Violet looked up at Snape. His eyes glittered oddly at her.

“Never let me catching you cutting classes again.”

Violet blushed again, properly called out for her feeble lie.

“Yes, sir,” she squeaked again, and began to pack up her supplies.

It was difficult to do anything with her hands, as they were currently occupied with a now sleeping mouse, and Violet was very grateful when Professor Lupin stepped up and offered to assist. Violet made sure that his pocket watch was returned to him before taking care of her own supplies.

“Allow me,” he said, politely holding open the classroom door to the classroom for Violet. “Goodnight, Severus!”

“Goodnight, Lupin,” Snape replied coolly, not looking after them. “Do take care, out in the moonlight . . .”

When Professor Lupin closed the door behind them, Violet heard the distinct click of the lock falling into place.

“Has he always been like this?” she asked after a moment. “At school, I mean — was he —?”

“Oh, no,” said Professor Lupin cheerfully, “he used to be much worse.”

Violet giggled.

Accompanied by Professor Lupin, Violet began to make her way down the cold stone corridor away from the Potions classroom.

“What are you going to do with him?” Lupin asked, and Violet’s head shot up in confusion.

“What?”

“The mouse,” said Professor Lupin, nodding at the little creature still clasped in her hands. “I hope you don’t  _ really _ plan on feeding the little fellow to your cat.”

“Oh! Oh — no, of course not. I don’t, er, really know what to do with him? I didn’t plan on owning a mouse when I came down here tonight.”

“Here, let me see him,” Lupin said, holding out his hands. Carefully, Violet passed the mouse from her grasp to his, and watched him scratch its little head with his thumb for a moment, before bending down and setting the mouse down on the stone floor. It looked around for a few seconds, sniffed the air, then scampered off back down the direction they’d come from.

“Godspeed, little fellow,” Lupin said as he straightened up, turning back to Violet with yet another smile on his face. “Shall we?”

Resuming their silent journey down the hall, Violet was surprised with just how comfortable she felt in Professor Lupin’s company. When he’d been a complete stranger she looked at him with nothing but fear and suspicion, yet after learning a secret about him that so many others would consider monstrous, it had only put her at ease. It felt almost as though she owed him an apology for her initial distrust — but Violet couldn’t think of a non-awkward way to even start that conversation. Sorry for thinking you were weird at first? You’re much nicer now that I’ve gotten to know you? She couldn’t say anything nice without first admitting how prejudiced she’d been, and that was an uncomfortable thing to admit at the best of times.

Professor Lupin already seemed to be dealing with enough prejudice from Professor Snape, at least. At Christmas lunch, none of the other teachers had so much as batted an eye when Professor Dumbledore mentioned Lupin needing a potion to help him feel better, so they must be aware of his condition, which made sense; he was a member of the staff, after all. It would be hard to keep something like that from a group of witches and wizards as clever and talented as the various Hogwarts professors. Keeping it from the  _ students _ , however, made complete sense.

Violet had a sneaking suspicion that Professor Snape  _ wanted _ her to find out about Lupin’s secret. He had invited her into his office and told her what the Wolfsbane Potion was as he was brewing it, and he’d made a point of getting Professor Lupin to drink it in front of her. Then there was the essay he set during his brief turn as substitute, and all the little jabs about silver, and the moon . . .

Violet’s footsteps faltered as they ascended the staircase out of the dungeons, following a few steps behind Professor Lupin. Silver and the moon? Why did that sound familiar?

“Here we are,” Lupin said as the pair of them emerged into the empty entrance hall. There were only a few torches lit on the walls, leaving them both standing mostly in shadow, but she could still see the kindly smile on his face. “Goodness — I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten.”

Violet hadn’t realized the time, either. Ninety minutes had flown by in a haze of crushing and stirring ingredients, but now that the hour had been brought to her attention it was as though a spell had been broken; her mouth opened in a wide yawn.

“Best get to bed,” said Professor Lupin, stifling a yawn of his own. “Goodnight, Violet. Sleep well.”

“Thanks, sir,” Violet said, waving as she turned away. “You too.”

Professor Lupin turned and headed up the grand staircase, likely on the way to his office, or wherever it was that teachers slept. Surely they had bedrooms of their own somewhere, Violet though as she dragged her feet in the direction of the staircase at the opposite side of the entrance hall, though she’d never really given it much thought before. Surely they didn’t sleep in dorms like their students did — and where did Professor Lupin stay during the full moon?

Interesting as these questions were, Violet was far too tired to dwell on them. She trudged slowly down the steps, let herself sleepily into the Slytherin common room, and collapsed into her bed. Her head hit the pillow, and she was immediately asleep.


	13. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

January faded imperceptibly into February, with no change in the bitterly cold weather. Violet was exhausted from both her everyday classes and her grueling ‘detentions’ with Professor Snape, and she longed to unburden some of her stress onto her brother’s shoulders. But for now, Harry was already dealing with enough trauma.

Professor McGonagall still hadn’t given him back his broomstick.

Violet had seen Harry cornering his Head of House at mealtimes and after Transfiguration class, hopefully pestering her even as Professor McGonagall grew more and more impatient with him. Violet kept hoping for Harry to get fed up and just resign himself to waiting patiently and yet knew, deep in her heart, that her brother would never do such a sensible thing. That would have made it too easy to talk to him, which she very badly wanted to do.

To make matters even worse, their anti-dementor lessons were not progressing well. Several sessions on, Harry was able to produce an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart-dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too feeble to drive the dementor away. Violet, unsurprisingly, wasn’t faring any better; her memories were no happier than Harry’s, and she was finding it difficult to sift through the grime and find something suitably good to focus on.

“You’re expecting too much of yourselves,” said Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of practice. “For a pair of thirteen year olds, even an indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement. You aren’t passing out anymore, are you?”

“I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly. “Make them disappear —”

“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin. “But you’ve achieved a great victory in a very short space of time. If the dementors put in an appearance at your next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them at bay long enough to get back to the ground.”

“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said Violet.

“I have complete confidence in you both,” said Professor Lupin, smiling. “Here — you’ve earned a drink — something from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it before —”

He pulled three bottles out of his briefcase.

“Butterbeer! Yeah, I like that stuff!” said Harry, and Violet wrenched her head around to glare at him so fast that her neck twinged.

Lupin raised an eyebrow.

“Ron and Hermione brought us some back from Hogsmeade,” Violet lied quickly, and suddenly found out that she didn’t like lying to Professor Lupin. It left a bitter, sour taste in her mouth the same way it did on the few occasions she’d lied to Harry.

“I see,” said Lupin, though he still looked slightly suspicious. “Well — let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take sides, as a teacher . . .” he added hastily.

They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry voiced a question that Violet herself had been wondering for a while.

“What’s under a dementor’s hood?”

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully.

“Hmmm . . . well, the only people who really know are in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor lowers its hood only to use it’s last and worst weapon.”

“Which is?” Violet asked curiously, folding one leg up beneath her in her chair.

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a slightly twisted smile. “It’s what dementors do to those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim and — and suck out his soul.”

Harry choked and spat out a bit of butterbeer.

“What — they kill —?”

“Oh no,” said Lupin. “Much worse than that. You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no . . . anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever . . . lost.”

Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the  _ Daily Prophet _ this morning. The Ministry have given the dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”

“He deserves it,” Harry blurted suddenly.

“You think so?” said Lupin lightly. “Do you really think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes,” said Violet and Harry at the same time. They looked at one another, understanding, and Violet said, “For some things . . . yes.”

She would have liked to have told Lupin about the conversation they’d overheard about Black in the Three Broomsticks, about Black betraying their mother and father, but it would have revealed that the two of them had gone to Hogsmeade without permission, and she knew Professor Lupin wouldn’t be happy about that. She and Harry finished their butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and left the History of Magic classroom.

“I can’t believe you!” Violet hissed at her brother, pinching his arm.

“Ow!” Harry squawked. “What? What was that for?”

Violet pitched her voice slightly lower in her best impression of Harry and said, “‘Oh, I just love butterbeer! We’ve had loads of it, sir!’  _ That _ , Harry — sometimes you can be so —”

“Stupid,” Harry said, before she had the chance. For a moment Violet was worried she’d hurt his feelings, but Harry was smiling. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

“I mean it, though,” Violet said earnestly. “Not that you’re stupid, but — you’ve got to be more careful about what you say. Sometimes you just blurt things out.”

“You do it, too!” Harry countered, now with a defiant set to his chin. “Remember last year when you told Dumbledore I was a Parselmouth?”

“Because that was  _ important _ , Harry!”

“Well maybe I think learning about dementors is important!”

“I’m not even talking about dementors, this is about the butterbeer —”

“What does it  _ matter _ , Violet, all I said was that I —”

The twins were so engrossed their argument that they weren’t looking where they were going; Violet rounded the corner first and walked headlong into Professor McGonagall.

“Do watch where you’re going, Miss Potter!”

“Sorry, Professor —”

Harry gasped loudly.

“Is that my broom?”

Violet blinked and looked at what Professor McGonagall was holding. There was the Firebolt, and it looked as magnificent as ever.

“Yes, it is. I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor common room. We’ve done everything we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it at all. You’ve got a very good friend somewhere, Potter . . .”

Harry’s mouth was hanging open.

“I can have it back?” he said weakly. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” said Professor McGonagall, and she was actually smiling. “I daresay you’ll need to get the feel of it before Saturday’s match, won’t you? And Potter —  _ do _ try and win won’t you? Or we’ll be out of the running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night . . .”

There was nothing Violet could do but watch as Harry took the broomstick into his hands with astonishing reverence and headed off toward the Gryffindor common room to show it off to Ron and Hermione.

 

The next morning Violet headed down to breakfast in high spirits. She had spent the night playing Exploding Snap with Tracey and Cassius in the common room, and was delighted to find that she’d gotten better at it. Tracey, who was still used to the Muggle version of Snap, kept slamming her hand down the cards rather than tapping them with her wand and had several blistered fingers to show for it, while Cass had a habit of hesitating a moment too long and letting his cards blow up in his face. Violet had won the last round and earned herself an unopened box of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, which she planned to save for a special occasion.

It was Friday, which meant Tracey and Violet had Transfiguration and their electives (Muggle Studies for Tracey, Ancient Runes for Violet) before lunch and then free time for the rest of the day. Violet really enjoyed Ancient Runes; unlike Arithmancy, the subject held her attention for more reasons than just because her mother had once studied it. Likewise, Tracey was thriving in Muggle Studies — having come from an entirely Muggle family, aside her from her mother, a witch who had passed away when she was very young, Tracey had a definite advantage in the class. Her desire to stand out academically had come true with only one small snag.

“I can’t  _ believe _ Professor Burbage liked Granger’s essay more than mine!” Tracey was saying, fuming as she and Violet ascended the staircase from the dungeons arm in arm. “We basically wrote the same thing, only  _ she _ went into all sorts of detail about how Muggles still talk about electricity being discovered with a kite and how it was probably a wizard showing off in the first place, otherwise he would’ve been fried to bits.  _ Ugh _ ! The one time I’m good at something and she has to be there, being  _ better _ .”

“There’s loads of things you’re good at!” protested Violet. “I keep telling you, you’ve got a great knack for Herbology, and I love working with you in Potions class. You’re really good at —”

“Fine, so I’m good,” Tracey interrupted, scowling, “but I’m not the  _ best _ . That was the whole point of taking Muggle Studies, to be  _ better _ at it than anyone else! Oh, I’ll show Professor Burbage what a good bloody essay looks like — might knock Hermione down a peg or two this afternoon, too.”

“Hang on, what are you going to do to her this afternoon?” Violet asked. “Hermione’s not in Muggle Studies, she’s in Ancient Runes with me.”

“Don’t be silly, of course she’s in Muggle Studies. She has been all term.”

“Tracey, I sit right next to her in class! If she’s in  _ your _ class, how could she also be in  _ my _ —”

“ _ YOU! _ ”

Violet broke off with a start at the loud shout that rang out as soon as they set foot into the Great Hall. She looked around, with several other students looking up as well, and found herself being charged at by a very red faced, very angry looking Ron Weasley, who appeared to be dragging a bedsheet behind him.

“LOOK!” he bellowed, walking straight up to Violet and shaking the bedsheet in her face. “LOOK!”

“Ron, what —?”

“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!”

Violet took a step back from Ron, frightened and bewildered, but heard Tracey gasp as she looked at the bedsheet he was holding. There was something red on it. Something that looked horribly like —

“BLOOD!” Ron yelled into the stunned silence around them. “HE’S GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE FLOOR?”

“N—no,” said Violet in a trembling voice. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Ron screwed up his face and thrust his other hand toward Violet and for a terrible, awful moment she thought he was going to hit her — but he opened his palm and held it up for her to see. There in his hand, unmistakably, were several long, ginger cat hairs.

Violet immediately felt sick. She stared at the hairs, knowing what they were, knowing  _ whose _ they were, and yet —

“It can’t have been Crookshanks,” she blurted, looking up at Ron. “He was with me all night — he slept right on my feet, he couldn’t have —”

“OH YES HE COULD!” Ron roared, shaking the bedsheet again. “That bloody cat! He’s been sneaking into our common room at night, did you know that? Ever since you brought him in, it’s like he knows the bloody password! He crept in last night, went upstairs, and ATE MY RAT!”

“Ron!” Harry had appeared at his side, grabbing him hard by the elbow. “Leave her alone! It’s not Violet’s fault —”

“Well it’s not  _ Scabbers’ _ fault!” Ron said viciously, and Violet recoiled. “She’s the one that lets that mangy beast roam around wherever it likes!”

“He’s a cat, I can’t keep him locked up!” Violet snapped. 

“Well maybe you should!” Ron snarled. “Maybe then my rat wouldn’t be DEAD!”

_ “Ron!” _ Harry said again, more angrily. “I said leave her alone!”

“And  _ you _ —” Ron whirled on Harry, fuming, “who’s side are you on, then?”

“Hers,” Harry said at once, staring Ron down. “I’m really sorry about Scabbers, but I’m  _ always _ going to be on her side, Ron.”

The usual tears were pricking at the corners of Violet’s eyes, and nearly the entire Great Hall had fallen silent to watch the confrontation. Ron glared at Harry for a long moment, then made a noise of frustration and pushed passed Violet so he could get through the doorway and, presumably, take his sheets back up to his room.

Violet stood, shaking with anger and humiliation, until Harry came up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I told him it wasn’t your fault,” he muttered, steering Violet toward the Gryffindor table with him. “I know how Crookshanks is, he just goes wherever he wants to, and it’s not the first time he’s eaten a rat, is it?”

“It wasn’t Crookshanks!” Violet burst, pulling away from her brother’s grasp. “He really was with me all night, Harry, when I woke up this morning he was in the same spot I left him last night! And why is this the first I’m hearing about him sneaking into Gryffindor tower?”

“I told Ron not to say anything to you,” Harry said uncomfortably. “I send Crookshanks right back out whenever I catch him — he listens to me, sort of — but he has gone after Scabbers a couple times —”

_ “Harry!” _ wailed Violet. “You should have told me, I could have stopped him!”

“He’s just a cat, Vi, you don’t have any control over him —”

“But I could’ve — could —”

Violet didn’t know what she could’ve done to stop this. She didn’t know how her sentence would have ended, either, because the sob that bubbled and burst from her throat didn’t give her a chance to get it out. Harry’s face immediately broke into an expression of anguish.

“Oh, Violet . . .”

Harry reached for her, but everything was already too much. Violet could feel what must have been hundreds of eyes on her from all the students gathered, all the teachers, all her friends and enemies and classmates and people she had never even met, all watching and staring at her. She took a step back, away from Harry, and then another, and then she was running from the hall without looking back.

 

It looked like the end of Ron and Violet’s friendship. Though never all that close to begin with, the rift between them was currently wider than ever.

Ron was enraged with both Violet for standing up for Crookshanks, and with Harry for standing up for his sister. Hermione had also been dragged into the matter, squirming uncomfortably when Ron demanded to know whose ‘side’ she was on — it stung when, all through Ancient Runes, Hermione kept her head buried in her notes and didn’t say a single word to Violet.

To make matters even worse, Pansy Parkinson had been in the Great Hall to overhear the whole fight.

_ “I _ could have told you that cat was a killer,” she hissed loudly to anyone who would listen, especially when Violet was within earshot. “The things that orange beasts does to rats — I’ve seen it, it savaged one right on my bed. Tore it to bits! Weasley’s never going to find all the pieces.”

Violet, shoulders rigid and determined not to cry anymore that morning, refrained from whipping around and snapping that Ron hadn’t found  _ any _ pieces of Scabbers. A bit of blood and fur on some bedsheets did not a crime scene make. And even if Crookshanks  _ had _ attacked Scabbers again, he couldn’t have eaten him; his food dish was empty when Violet woke up, and she’s only filled it before going to bed. Crookshanks  _ was _ a big cat, but it really was mostly fur.

What really made it all so terrible was just how hard Ron was taking the loss of his rat.

“I don’t see why he’s so upset, honestly,” Cassius grumbled, glancing across the way at the Gryffindor table where Harry and all the Weasleys were gathered around to comfort Ron. “That rat looked on its last legs at the best of times. Weasley might as well get down to Hogsmeade and get himself a new one.”

“But that was  _ his _ rat,” said Tracey gently. “He’s allowed to be sad, Cass.”

“I never said he wasn’t! Maybe he should just be a little less  _ angry _ about it, that’s all. It’s not Violet’s fault her cat did what cats do.”

“It  _ wasn’t _ Crookshanks,” Violet ground out through clenched teeth, not looking at either of her friends. “He was with me all night, right by my feet. I know he was.”

Cassius and Tracey exchanged dubious glances, but neither said anything more about it. It stung that they didn’t believe her any more than Ron did, but Violet was resolute in her truth. Crookshanks could  _ not _ have killed and eaten Scabbers. He just couldn’t have.

After lunch, Violet parted ways from her friends with a mumbled word about needing time to herself. To be alone was the exact opposite of what she wanted, but she did want to be away from Tracey and Cass and their very different ideas of how best to cheer her up. Violet didn’t want to be cheered or comforted. She wanted somebody to  _ listen _ to her.

The first place Violet went was back down the dungeons. The common room was nearly empty, but the handful of people in there all fell silent as soon as she set foot through the door. Cheeks burning, Violet strode purposefully into the girl’s dormitory, grabbed Crookshanks from where he was snoozing on Tracey’s pillow, and strode right back out with the grumbling cat in her arms.

The snow had all melted from the lawns, but the bitter cold remained. Frost crunched under Violet’s shoes as she marched across the grass, mumbling soothing words to Crookshanks all the while to stop him from squirming so much. Distant voices carried to her ears from the Quidditch pitch; a laughing blur was streaking across the sky at impossible speeds, weaving through the goal posts and soaring wildly from one end of the pitch to the other. It was Harry, showing off his newly returned Firebolt. Any other time and Violet would have dropped everything to watch Harry fly and maybe even get the chance to fly herself — it had been too long since she’d felt the rush of wind in her hair and the weightless, slightly dizzy feeling that came from diving a broomstick at full speed. But to drop things now would only mean having to catch Crookshanks again later, and Violet was sure that where Harry was Ron would be also. And she really didn’t want to speak to Ron anymore today.

The chimney of Hagrid’s hut was puffing out a steady cloud of grey smoke, promising a warm fire burning inside. Violet hefted Crookshanks against her shoulder and raised a fist to knock, but drew up short at the sound of voices within. Hagrid already had visitors. Her heart sank.

Violet had taken ten steps back up the path to the castle when she heard the door open behind and Hagrid called, “Violet! Where’d yeh think yer goin’?”

When Violet sheepishly set foot inside of Hagrid’s blissfully warm cabin, the first thing she saw was Hermione Granger, seated at the kitchen table with about four different books spread in front of her. She smiled kindly at Violet, though her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Good ter see yeh, Violet, glad yeh stopped in!” Hagrid said. “Hermione here is helpin’ me prepare fer Buckbeak’s trial.” He gestured to all the books on the table, beaming; then his eyes fell to Crookshanks. “An’ who’s this feller?”

“Oh! This is my cat,” Violet said, hefting Crookshanks in her arms. “At least, I  _ think _ he’s a cat. I’ve been meaning to show him to you — I think someone once called him a — a Kneazle?”

“Is he, now?” said Hagrid interestedly, leaning down for a closer look. One of his massive hands came up to gently tickle under Crookshanks chin before carefully pulling at one of his ears, peering into the cat’s wide orange eyes that watched Hagrid’s every move. “Hmmm . . . .  _ half- _ Kneazle, I’d reckon. Still a clever little beast, just a bit easier ter get along with.”

“Are full Kneazles known to be, er, difficult?” Violet asked nervously as Hagrid straightened up.

“Kneazles are meant to be very intelligent,” Hermione piped up from the table, “and they’re very loyal to their wizarding owners, which can make them aggressive if they feel their masters are threatened. They can also detect suspicious and untrustworthy people, and guide their owners home if they are lost.”

“Very good, Hermione!” Hagrid cheered, clapping. “Glad ter know someone’s been readin’ ahead!”

Hermione’s cheeks darkened with blush even as she smiled.  _ Intelligent _ and  _ loyal _ certainly sounded like Crookshanks, and for a cat he had always been very protective of Violet; she remembered all the times Crookshanks had hissed at Uncle Vernon, and how he’d dirtied Pansy Parkinson’s sheets with a fresh kill. But that didn’t explain why he was so aggressive toward Scabbers — how could an old rat be untrustworthy?

“Come an’ have a seat,” said Hagrid suddenly, bustling across the hut to the large fireplace, “I’ll get another cuppa for yeh.”

“What’s all this for?” Violet asked, looking at all the books as she hopped up into one of Hagrid’s enormous kitchen chairs. She put Crookshanks into the seat next to her and stroked his back until he curled up and began to purr.

“Buckbeak’s trial,” said Hermione gravely. “I’ve been looking for anything I can find on hippogriff baiting — oh, Violet, it’s  _ awful _ what people used to do to them — but there’s got be something that can help get Buckbeak acquitted!”

“Hermione’s bin comin’ by ter help me prepare for the hearing,” Hagrid grunted, setting a large, steaming yellow mug in front of Violet. “We’ve bin practicin’ openin’ statements — I’ve got all sort of notes written down ter memorize.”

Hagrid didn’t seem excited about the idea of having to memorize a speech, for which Violet couldn’t blame him. She loathed giving oral presentations; having to stand in the front of a room with so many people looking at her was bad enough without having to talk as well.

“What about Harry and Ron?” Violet asked, eying her tea warily; it was likely far too hot to drink. “Haven’t they been helping, too?”

Hagrid and Hermione shared a look.

“Not exactly . . .” Hermione said. “I’m sure they’d like to if — if they knew I was here doing it, but . . .” Suddenly, Hermione’s brown eyes began to fill with tears. “But seeing as they’re hardly speaking to me these days and don’t seem to care that I’m not spending time with them, I don’t really think they’d be interested.”

“There, there, Hermione,” said Hagrid at once, reaching out to engulf Hermione’s tiny hand with his own massive one. “O’ course they’re missin’ yeh —”

“I don’t think they are,” Hermione said in a high voice, with a painfully forced little laugh. “Ron and Harry have got other things to be worried about besides me.”

“What’s going on?” Violet asked, startled. This was the first she’d heard of anything going on between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Did something happen?”

“Harry didn’t tell you?” said Hermione bitterly. “Well, you were there, so I suppose he didn’t have to —  _ I’m _ the reason he got his broomstick taken away, and it’s  _ my _ fault he didn’t get to practice flying on it until today. And  _ Ronald _ is under the impression that I’m the one who’s been letting your cat into the common room at night. He slipped past me  _ once _ , and now it’s my fault Scabbers is gone!”

“Crookshanks didn’t eat Scabbers,” Violet said stubbornly, ready for another fight.

“I know!” Hermione said, much to Violet’s surprise. “I don’t think Crookshanks is guilty, either. There are loads of people with cats in Gryffindor tower, any one of them could have done it. But because I stood up for you and Crookshanks Ron thinks we’re all ‘in league to cover up the crime.’ Can you believe he actually said that to me?”

Violet could believe, readily and easily, that Ron Weasley would say such a thing, but decided against voicing that out loud. Hagrid was already looking between them in obvious distress.

“Now, now — jus’ because the boys are upset don’ mean they don’ care — Harry an’ Ron’ll come around before too long, jus’ you wait.”

“Harry was really upset about having his Firebolt taken away,” Hermione said quietly as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “I know he has it back now, but . . .”

“Don’t worry about Harry,” Violet her comfortingly. “You’re his friend, just as much as Ron is. He’s always talking about how brilliant you are, Hermione; he’ll get over it.”

Hermione sniffed, but at least she was starting to smile again. “Thanks, Violet,” she said. “It’s only a broomstick, after all . . .”

 

Perhaps it  _ was _ only a broomstick, but Harry was treating it like it was made of solid gold. The next morning Violet came down to breakfast to find that Harry had not only brought his Firebolt with him, but had laid it out in the middle of the table so that everyone in the hall could see it.

“Prat,” Violet grumbled into her cereal, glaring at where her brother stood amongst over a dozen awestruck onlookers.

“Be nice,” Tracey chided beside her. “I think it’s good he’s got something to be excited about again. Isn’t this better than seeing him mope around the halls all day?”

Violet shoved a large spoonful into her mouth to avoid answering that.  _ Yes _ , it was better for Harry to be happy, but that didn’t mean he had to be such a show-off about it.

“Oi, look sharp,” Cassius said, nodding down the table. Violet looked over in time to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle getting to their feet, narrowed eyes directed across the hall toward Harry. Violet rolled her eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Oh, Merlin, here we go . . .”

“Sure you can handle that broom, Potter?” said Malfoy’s cold, drawing voice, loud enough to carry.

“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually.

“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” said Malfoy, sauntering up for a closer look. The gathered members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team pressed tight around the broom, as though they feared Malfoy might make a grab for it. “Shame it doesn’t come with a parachute — in case you get too near a dementor.”

“Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Then it could catch the Snitch for you.”

Violet choked and sprayed a bit of milk out her nose. Malfoy shot her a venomous glare as he returned to their table and hunkered down with the rest of the Slytherin team, who put their heads together, no doubt asking Malfoy whether Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt.

“Did you teach him that one,” asked Cass, eyes sparkling as he watching Violet mop spilt milk from the front of her robes, “or d’you reckon he came up with it on his own?”

“That was all Harry,” Violet said, looking over at her brother in pride. “He can be clever too, y’know. Sometimes.”

At quarter to eleven, Violet, Tracey, and Cassius joined the rest of the school in heading down the Quidditch pitch. The weather couldn’t have been more different from the last time Gryffindor played. It was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze, there would be no visibility problems this time and Violet, though still nervous, was still excited to see Harry be able to play to his full ability.

Rather than joining Ron and Hermione as they usually did, Violet caught Hermione’s arm and pulled her to join the three of them higher in the stands. In the very top row, sitting all by himself, was Professor Lupin. Violet bit her lip in a moment of indecision, then hurried up the stands and plopped down beside him.

“Hello, sir!” she said brightly.

“Hello, Violet,” Lupin said, seeming both surprised and delighted to see her. “You’re not sitting with your fellow Slytherins?”

“I’m only here for Harry,” Violet said.

“And what about your friends?” Professor Lupin asked, looking pointedly down the steps where Tracey, and Cassius, and Hermione were lingering uncertainly. Violet quickly waved them up to sit with her and Lupin.

“They’re here for me,” she said smugly, and looped arms with Tracey as she joined Violet on the bench. Cassius sat down beside Tracey, and Hermione took a seat on Professor Lupin’s other side. They all greeted him politely, but only Violet seemed truly comfortably being this close to a teacher outside of class. Perhaps it was because of how much time she and Harry had spent with him during their anti-dementor lessons, but Violet had begun to feel a certain fondness for their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He had been unfailingly kind to them since the very moment they’d met and, in light of her being one of the few (she desperately hoped it was only herself and Hermione) who had figured out what Professor Lupin was, Violet felt rather protective of him as well. It had made her sad to see him sitting all alone, and she was certain coming to join him was the right choice.

“Here they come!” Hermione said, pointing down the field below where both the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw teams were now exiting from opposite sides and coming to meet in the middle, Gryffindors resplendent in red and Ravenclaws dressed all in lovely blue.

“Have you seen Harry fly yet?” Violet asked Professor Lupin as the two team captains shook hands. He shook his head.

“No, I haven’t,” he said, sounding a tad wistful, “but Professor McGonagall tells me he’s very good.”

“He is,” said Violet, grinning. The two teams all mounted their brooms, the shrill sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle ran throughout the pitch, and then they were off. Even if she hadn’t been able to spot her twin from a mile away, Violet thought there was no way anyone could have trouble picking Harry out of the crowd. The Firebolt zoomed higher and faster than any other broom, and within seconds Harry was soaring high above the stadium, beginning his careful patrol in search of the Golden Snitch. Violet waved up at him, knowing he was likely too focused to even see her — but let out a laugh when both Weasley twins zoomed past, waving right back at her. Their friend Lee Jordan, another fifth year Gryffindor boy, was providing his usual commentary.

“They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor. According to  _ Which Broomstick _ , the Firebolt’s going to be the broom of choice for the nation teams at this year’s World Championship —”

“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of background information — the Firebolt, incidentally, has a built-in auto-brake and —”

“Jordan!”

“Okay, okay, Gryffindor in Possession, Katie Bell of Gryffindor heading for goal . . .”

“Looks like Harry’s got a shadow,” Cass said from down the row, pointing to the Ravenclaw Seeker who was, indeed, tailing Harry very closely. They looked even smaller than he was, and a very good flier to boot — Violet watched them cut in front of Harry, forcing him to change direction.

“Cho is very passionate about flying,” Professor Lupin commented.

“Who?” Violet asked, looking round at him. He nodded up in the direction of the Ravenclaw Seeker. 

“Miss Chang, I suppose I should say. Very bright, though I’m afraid I’ve had to discourage from staring out the windows during class.”

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES!” Lee Jordan hollered, and the Gryffindor end of the stands went wild. Tracey clapped both hands over her ears against the sudden wave of noise. Violet reserved her cheers, however, until she saw Harry drop into a deep dive — dives were his speciality, and he must have been so close to the Snitch to have his hand out like that, lower and lower —

Then a Bludger, hit by one of the Ravenclaw beasters, came pelting toward him; Violet screamed as Harry veered off course, nearly hitting one of the goal posts before pulling back up. There was a great “Ooooooh” of disappointment from the Gryffindor supporters, but much applause for their Beater from the Ravenclaw end. Violet cheered as George Weasley vented his feelings by hitting the second Bludger directly at the offending Beater, who was forced to roll right over in midair to avoid it.

“Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its paces now, see it turn — Chang’s Comet is just no match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really noticeable in these long —”

“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”

Violet heard a hoarse laugh from her left and realized it was Professor Lupin.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, grinning broadly; Violet didn’t miss the strange sorrow in his eyes, however. She quickly turned back to the game, just in time to watch Harry swoop down into another breakneck dive, Cho Chang rocketing right after him. Only Harry pulled up very sharply while Cho did not.

“Oh my gosh!” Tracey cried, clutching tight to Violet’s arm with one hand and pointing with the other. Violet followed her finger to the field below, where three black, hooded shapes had appeared, moving quickly. Her insides seized with fear at the sight of the dementors, invading the grounds for a second time —

Only dementors didn’t have feet. And they didn’t run. And they were  _ much _ larger than the three figures now rushing to the middle of the field. One of their hoods slipped back only to be snatched forward again, but not before Violet caught a flash of white-blonde hair.

“You’ve  _ got _ to be kidding,” she groaned, rising to her feet. A light touch on her wrist stopped her from rushing the field herself, and Violet looked back to find Lupin standing as well, wand drawn.

“Stay here,” he said gravely, looking very pale as he made to step past her. “Let me be the one to —”

Whatever Lupin was saying was cut off by a mix of screams and cheers from the crowd around them; Hermione had leapt to her feet, clapping madly, and Violet looked back to the game just in time to see the three hooded figures collapsing to the ground as a they were charged down by a shimmering, silver, four-legged shape, no doubt cast from Harry’s wand. Harry, for his part, had stopped in midair, one hand held high above his head. In his fist, Violet could see the faint glimmer of gold. Harry had caught the Snitch.

“GRYFFINDOR WINS!” Lee Jordan screamed, his excitement nearly drowned out by the stampede of hundreds of students rushing down to the field. Violet, quick and agile as she was, darted around and between and under until she set foot on the grass and took off at a run toward where the Gryffindor team was gathered. Ron was already there, hoisting Harry’s hand high into the air.

“You did it!” Violet roared, wrapping both hands around her brother; Harry’s glasses were crooked and his hair was even more ruffled than usual from all the congratulations, but he was beaming brightly.

“Ruddy brilliant!” boomed Hagrid over the heads of the milling Gryffindors.

“That was quite some Patronus,” said a voice from behind Violet, and she let go of Harry to find Lupin standing there, looking both shaken and pleased.

“The dementors didn’t affect me at!” Harry said excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!”

“They weren’t really dementors, Harry,” Violet said, and Harry frowned.

“But — then what —”

“Come and see,” said Professor Lupin.

He led Harry out of the crowd, Violet tagging close behind, until they were able to see the edge of the field.

“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin.

Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team Captain, all struggling to remove themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle’s shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of utmost fury on her face, was Professor McGonagall.

“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here he comes now!”

Violet was bent nearly double with laughter at the sight of Malfoy trying to extricate himself from the ridiculously large robes, Goyle’s head still stuck inside of it. She could barely breathe to wish Harry well as the rest of the Gryffindor came and whisked him away, shouting about parties in the common room.

 

Things were tense in the Slytherin common room.

For the very first time in her three years at Hogwarts, Violet saw Professor Snape in the common room; he had come to tear Malfoy to pieces. He didn’t shout the way Professor McGonagall did, but by the end of his soft, vicious tirade against Malfoy, Flint, Crabbe, and Goyle, the entire House was left cringing and on edge. Fifty points was no small amount to lose, and this wasn’t the first time Malfoy was involved with such a devastating blow to their point total.

When Professor Snape finally billowed back out of the common room, Malfoy and his friends were left crumpled on the sofa, red-faced and unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Violet would have felt sorry for anyone else, but as it was Malfoy, she spent the whole time trying not to laugh.

“Glad that’s over,” Cassius said, letting out a shaky breath as quiet chatter resumed around them once more. “Bloody hell, if Snape ever spoke to  _ me _ in front of everyone like that I think I’d jump off the Astronomy Tower.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Tracey said reproachfully. “Maybe Malfoy will actually learn a lesson this time.”

“Doubt it,” Violet muttered, sucking on one of her last sugar quills; she would need to buy more next time they went to Hogsmeade. “As if he’s ever learned anything except how to be more of a pain . . .”

“You don’t think having the ‘Fear of Snape’ put into him will do any good?” Cassius asked, smirking, but Violet just shook her head.

“He reminds me of Dudley, only smarter,” she said darkly. “All he wants to do is hurt and make fun of people for his own amusement. What if Harry had fallen off his broom again and gotten hurt? Or what if Harry had realized they weren’t real dementors and attacked them with a different spell — would  _ he _ be in trouble if they’d gotten hurt?”

Tracey and Cass looked between each other uncomfortably. Violet knew they probably hadn’t thought about any of that the way she had, but it still rankled that they weren’t taking Malfoy’s prank more seriously. What sort of person dresses up like the worst fear of someone just to throw them off during a sports game? What was the point, other than senseless cruelty?

With the tension at the table now as well as throughout the common room, Violet was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She closed up her books and packed everything away.

“I’m gonna study in the dorm,” she muttered, and hurried away before her friends could try and make her stay.

It was quieter in the girl’s dormitory at least. Crookshanks wasted no time in curling up by Violet’s side, and as the hours wore on it became harder and harder to focus on the words in front of her. 

Violet was fast asleep, a book still open on her stomach, when the rest of the girls filtered into the room. She enjoyed several hours of rest after the day’s excitement, but it was much later in the night that she began to dream.

She was Harry. This wasn’t strange at all, of course; Violet and Harry had shared dreams for as long as either of them could remember, and they were used to taking each others place in their sleep. Sometimes Violet was in control of the dream and sometimes, like tonight, it was Harry. They were walking through a forest, Harry’s Firebolt over their shoulder, following something silvery-white. It was winding its way through the trees again, and they could only catch glimpses of it between the leaves. Anxious to catch up with it, they sped up, but as they moved faster, so did their quarry. Harry broke into a run, and ahead they heard hooves gathering speed. Now they were running flat out, galloping ahead of them. They they turned a corner into a clearing and —

Violet woke suddenly as though she’d been hit in the face. Disoriented in the total darkness, she struggled wildly with the hanging around her bed, ripping them back to let in the faint light from the glowing wall sconces. Violet was breathing hard, and there was a tightness in her chest that she knew all too well; the icy clench of fear.

“Violet?” Tracey’s groggy voice came from the next bed over. “Are you okay?”

“I think —” Violet wet her chapped lips, trying to force her breathing to even out so she could speak properly. “I think something’s wrong.”

“What?” Violet heard the blankets shift as Tracey sat up, and a moment later the mattress beneath her sagged under the weight of the other girl. Violet felt a warm hand bump blindly against her arm before settling on her shoulder. Tracey’s voice was soft and comforting as she asked, “Did you have another nightmare?”

Violet shook her head. The dream had been confusing, but not frightening. There was no reason for her to see so panicked, so confused, unless —

“I think something’s the matter with Harry.”

“He’s not even in here, Violet,” said Tracey sounding dubious but still very tired. “What could be the matter with him?”

“I don’t know!” Violet hissed. “It just feels like — like something’s  _ wrong _ , I know it doesn’t make sense —”

“I believe you,” said Tracey, firmly squeezing Violet’s shoulder, “I know you two have some sort of funny twin connection, I suppose. Maybe  _ Harry _ had a nightmare?”

“It wasn’t that, Tracey, I had the same —”

“Will you two  _ please _ shut up!” hissed Pansy across the dark room. “Some of us are trying to sleep in here!”

“Come on,” Violet grumbled, grabbing Tracey’s hand and pulling her from the bed.

“Where are we going?”

“Just the common room. I can’t breathe in here.”

The common room was completely empty, and only marginally brighter than the dormitory had been, but it was the openness of it that Violet craved. No curtains pressing close around her, no sleeping bodies shifting and breathing nearby. It felt almost as good as stepping out into the night air. 

“Now what?” Tracey sighed, rubbing at her eyes with the hand that wasn’t in Violet’s grasp. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to sneak out to Gryffindor tower again, Vi.”

“I won’t,” Violet promised, even as she itched to do exactly that and see what was wrong for herself. “Sorry for waking you up . . .”

Tracey sighed again and gave Violet’s hand a tug.

“It’s alright . . . Come on, let’s sit down at least. You can tell me about your dream.”

The two of them nestled in the couch in front of the fireplace, which had burned down to little more than embers, and Violet had just begun to explain how the perspective of her dream had been through Harry’s eyes when the door to the common room burst open. Professor Snape strode in, his usual black cloak pulled hastily over a long grey nightshirt, and waved his wand soundlessly. The green lamps all around the room flared to life. Snape stopped abruptly when he saw Tracey and Violet.

“Potter, Davis,” he said sharply. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Violet had a nightmare,” Tracey said at once, then let out a pained “oof!” as Violet elbowed her hard in the ribs. “Well, you did!”

“Nevermind that,” Professor Snape snapped. “Go and wake the other girls at once. Find your prefects and send them in here, now.”

“What’s going on?” Violet squeaked, leaping to her feet. “Did something happen? Is Harry —?”

“I gave you an order, Potter,” said Professor Snape harshly. “Go and wake everyone up,  _ now _ !”

Violet wanted to challenge him. She wanted answers. She wanted to be brave and demand to know what was going on, where her brother was, but the bravery she needed didn’t come. Instead she dared to shoot Snape one questioning glance before scurrying back down the stone steps to the girl’s dormitories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long gap between updates this time! I'll try to keep up with it better!


	14. Snape's Grudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

It wasn’t until dawn, after spending another night in squashy purple sleeping bags on the floor of the Great Hall with all the other Houses that word finally began to spread about what had happened: Sirius Black had made another strike at Gryffindor Tower, and had very nearly killed Ron Weasley before evading capture again.

The story leaked out from the Gryffindors at breakfast, muttered across aisles and between friends and siblings, and pretty soon the entire school had heard some version of the night’s events. In one tale, Black had torn his way straight through the portrait hole and stormed the boy’s dormitory with an axe in his hands, swinging wildly and chopping up curtains and bedposts. Another told of Black being a vampire, able to turn himself into mist and float in through an open window before attempting to strangle Ron with his bare hands. Most disturbing, of course, was the truth, which Violet overheard from Ron himself. He was happy to tell anyone who asked, and Violet joined the small crowd around him and listened in.

“. . . I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I thought it was in my dream, you know? But then there was this draft . . . I woke up and one side of the hangings on my bed had been pulled down . . . I rolled over . . . and I saw him standing over me . . . like a skeleton, with loads of filthy hair . . . holding this great long knife, must’ve been twelve inches . . . and he looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled, and he  _ scampered _ .”

“He had the password to the common room,” Harry muttered to Violet, while the rest of the crowd huddled excitedly around Ron. “Neville wrote them all down, since Sir Cadogan keeps coming up with mad ones and changing them all the time, but then he lost the list, and I s’pose Black found it . . .”

Neville was in total disgrace. Professor McGonagall was so furious with him she had banned him from all future Hogsmeade visits, given him detention, and forbidden anyone to give him the password into Gryffindor Tower. Harry told Violet that poor Neville was forced to wait outside the common room every night for somebody to let him in. None of these punishments, however, came close to matching the one his grandmother had in store for him. Two days after Black’s break-in, she sent Neville the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive over breakfast — a Howler.

Violet only caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye as Neville streaked past out of the Great Hall, holding the envelope before him like a bomb. The Howler went off in the entrance hall — Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about how he had brought shame on the whole family.

As badly as Violet felt for Neville, she was dealing with an uncomfortable situation of her own.

“I  _ really _ think you should tell someone,” Tracey said, looking Violet very seriously in the eye. “I know it’s meant to be a secret and that it’s Harry’s, too, but —”

“I’m  _ not _ handing it in,” Violet hissed stubbornly. “Black’s not coming in through Honeydukes, Tracey, we’d have heard if there was a break-in.”

“But the other secret paths —”

“— Filch knows about the rest, and the ones he doesn’t are blocked anyways! It’s fine!”

“What are you two arguing about?” Cassius asked, appearing at Violet’s side. She and Tracey were talking, of course, about the Marauder’s Map, and the tunnel that lead from the one-eyed witch all the way to Hogsmeade village. While Tracey had seen the map and made Violet explain what it was, it was a secret that the girls had kept from Cassius.

“Nothing, Cass,” Violet said, shooting a warning glare at Tracey, who had just opened her mouth. “Just — just theories about how Sirius Black’s been getting in, that’s all.”

“Well he’s not a bloody vampire, I can tell you that much,” Cassius said, smirking. “I hear that one’s popular with the first years, and some particularly stupid seventh years as well.” He looked between Violet and Tracey, suspicion creeping back into his eyes. “Are you  _ sure _ everything’s alright? You’re not really fighting, are you?”

“Of course not,” Tracey said stiffly. “Me and Violet never disagree, you know that.”

Violet rolled her eyes.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t worried about how Black was getting into the castle — she was  _ very _ worried about it, and afraid that he had managed to do it without getting caught again. The problem was that she didn’t want to give up the Map, or the secret passage that allowed her and Harry to visit Hogsmeade with their friends. It was the only bit of fun they could have without all the teachers hovering over them, especially in light of the recent attack, and Violet wasn’t about to give that up easily. Nor would she take it from Harry, with whom she had already made plans to visit the village next weekend. This time they would just have to be more careful.

 

On Saturday morning, Violet fastened the leather cord which contained her Ghost Ring around her neck, slipped the Marauder’s Map into her pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone else. She waited in the entrance hall for Harry to finish his breakfast, and the two of them loudly waved goodbye to their friends as everybody else proceeded to the front doors.

As soon as they were alone, Harry and Violet hurried up to the third floor and went straight to the statue of the one-eyed witch. Violet pulled out the Marauder’s Map and smoothed it out. A tiny dot was moving in their direction. Violet squinted it at it. The miniscule writing next to it read  _ Neville Longbottom _ .

“Hurry,” she said to Harry, who quickly pulled out his wand, muttered, “ _ Dissendium _ !” and shoved his bag into the statue. But before either of them could climb in, Neville came around the corner.

“Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade either! Oh, hello, Violet.”

“Hi, Neville,” Violet said, swiftly shoving the map back into her pocket and adopting what she hoped was a casual pose against the statue. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” shrugged Neville. “Want a game of Exploding Snap?”

“Er — not now,” said Harry, “we’re going to go to the library and do that vampire essay for Lupin —”

“I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly. “I haven’t done it either!”

“Actually, I’ve finished mine,” Violet said. “I was just going to let Harry look over it.”

“Great, can you help me, too?” said Neville, his round face anxious. “I don’t understand that thing about the garlic at all — do they have to eat it, or —”

He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

It was Professor Snape. Neville took a quick step behind Harry.

“And what are you three doing here?” said Professor Snape, coming to a halt and looking between each of them. “An odd place to meet —”

To Violet’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and then to the one-eyed witch, which she was still leaning uncomfortably against.

“We’re not — meeting here,” said Harry. “We just — met here.”

“Indeed?” said Professor Snape. “The two of you have a habit of turning up in unexpected places together, and you are very rarely there for no good reason, Mr. Potter . . . I suggest you and Longbottom return to Gryffindor Tower, where you belong, while Miss Potter makes her way down to the dungeons, where  _ she _ belongs . . .”

Violet rankled at being addressed in the third person, especially when she was standing right there, but joined Harry and Neville in slinking off without another word. As they turned the corner, Violet looked back. Professor Snape was running one of his hands over the one-eyed witch’s head, examining it closely.

They managed to shake Neville off at the Fat Lady by Harry telling him the password, then Violet making a show of demanding Harry spend his time with her instead. They doubled back, and as soon as they were out of sight of the security trolls Violet pulled the map out again and held it close to her nose.

The third floor corridor seemed to be deserted. Violet and Harry scanned the map carefully and saw, with a leap of relief, that the tiny dot labeled  _ Severus Snape _ was now back in his office.

They sprinted back to the one-eyed witch, opened her hump, heaved their bodies inside, and slid down to meet Harry’s bag at the bottom of the stone chute. Violet wiped the Marauder’s Map blank again, then the two of them set off at a run.

 

Harry and Violet, completely hidden beneath Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes and met up with Ron, who had clearly been waiting for them.

“It’s us,” Harry muttered, prodding Ron in the back.

“What kept you?” Ron hissed.

“Professor Snape was hanging around . . .” Violet said as they headed up the High Street. “I said I would meet Tracey at the Zonko’s, can you take us there?”

“Yeah, ‘course. But there’s somewhere I wanted you two to see first.”

They went to the post office; Ron pretended to be checking the price of an owl to his brother Bill in Egypt so that Harry and Violet could have a good look around. The owls sat hooting softly down at them, at least three hundred of them; from Great Greys right down to little tiny Scops owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small they could have sat in the palm of Violet’s hand.

Then they visited Zonko’s; Tracey was waiting just outside, as she’d promised, and smiled hopefully at Ron as he approached, seemingly by himself.

“We’re here,” Violet said quietly, making her jump.

“Oh! Oh, right, I thought you would be! Good to, er, see you.”

Zonko’s was so packed with students that Harry and Violet had to exercise great care not to tread on anyone and cause a panic. There were jokes and tricks to fulfill even Fred and George’s wildest dreams; Harry and Violet whispered orders to their friends and passed money from under the cloak. They all left Zonko’s with their money bags considerably lighter than they had been on entering, but their pockets bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece.

The day was fine and breezy, and none of them felt like staying indoors. Harry and Ron wanted to visit the Shrieking Shack, which was supposedly the most haunted dwelling in Britain. As much as Violet would have liked to see it, too, she didn’t miss the look of fear on Tracey’s face and made the choice to stay back with her.

As they passed the Three Broomsticks, Violet pulled the boys around a secluded corner and slipped out from beneath the Invisibility Cloak.

“Be careful, Vi,” warned Harry’s voice from somewhere next to Ron’s shoulder. “And don’t go too far, alright? Meet us back here in a bit.”

“Yeah, I’ll catch up!” Violet promised, grinning as she stepped out from the shadows.

While Ron and her brother headed up the slope to lead them to the Shack, Violet and Tracey snuck off to one of Hogsmeade’s small parks, largely ignored by the visiting students in favour of all the shops and other entertaining landmarks.

It was a beautiful little area, though Violet would have thought it was more like a public garden than a proper park; there were two elegant stone benches set on opposite sides of the courtyard, the ground of which was a grand mosaic featuring a rather bloody scene of goblin warfare. Moss had begun to creep in between the gaps between its tiles and up the legs of the benches, which would have given the place an air of abandonment if not for all the flowers. Dozens and dozens of varieties were in bloom all around them; lurid pink, like the ones Lockhart had once decorated the Great Hall with; towering orchids whose petals formed mocking faces; roses that were black as night with thorns nearly an inch long; tiny purple flowers with little dark blue stems and little while polka dots on their leaves; shoots of green that might have been mistaken for weeds, if not for the pleasantly sweet scent they emitted when rustled by even the the slightest breeze. It was a beautiful place, and Violet wanted to sit and stare at it for hours.

“I hope this isn’t a private garden,” Tracey said anxiously as the pair of them sank onto the nearest bench, brushing aside fallen petals as they did so.

“I think it’s public,” Violet said, craning around for any sort of sign to suggest otherwise. “There isn’t a fence or anything . . .”

“Yeah, but . . . wizards, you know?”

Violet laughed.

The two of them sat and chatted for several minutes, remarking on the weather and the flowers around them and how nice it was to be out of the castle for a little while. When Violet asked where Cass was, Tracey told her he’d gone to meet up with some other students from his own year at the Three Broomsticks.

_ “I _ think he just wanted to try and chat up Madam Rosmerta again,” Tracey whispered conspiratorially. “Honestly, I don’t know what any of them expect! She’s not likely to look twice at some pimply schoolboy, is she?”

“Ron was looking after her, too,” Violet said, “the last time we met there. He made a point of being the one to go and grab us drinks, and he came back all flushed, do you remember?”

“I was too surprised to see you there to pay attention to Ron,” said Tracey. “Cass and I were just sitting there talking about what sort of things we wanted to bring back for you, and then there you were! And then the Minister of Magic and all the teachers showed up, of course — I know you were under the table and couldn’t see, but even while they were talking about all that horrible business with Sirius Black, Cassius was  _ still _ trying to peer around at Madam Rosmerta! Honestly!”

“I’m sure he was just trying to hear better,” Violet said, trying to give Cass the benefit of the doubt, but Tracey just snorted.

“Oh, but he’s not subtle. He gets this look on his face whenever there’s a pretty girl around; he gets it around you all the time, you know.”

Violet let out a startled little laugh.

“What? But I’m — I’m not a pretty girl —”

“Of course you are!” Tracey said, as though shocked Violet would say such a thing. “Violet, you must be joking — have you looked in a mirror lately? Don’t you see the way boys have been looking at you in the halls this year?”

Violet’s face flushed a deep, hot scarlet. She  _ had _ looked in a mirror, and saw nothing but a face that looked nearly identical to her brother’s, and as for people looking at her in the halls . . . she  _ hated _ being looked at, and specifically avoided people’s eyes so as not to see if they were watching her or not. It was stressful enough to feel eyes on her at all times without actually having to meet them.

“I guess I never noticed . . .” she muttered awkwardly, dropping her gaze. “I don’t think about that sort of stuff, Tracey . . .”

“Well, you  _ are _ pretty,” said Tracey matter-of-factly. She heaved a deep sigh. “I wish people would look at me the way they look at you sometimes.”

Violet didn’t know what to say to that. She’d never paid much attention to the way other students perceived her, or whether or not boys were paying attention to her, but that sort of thing had always seemed to matter to Tracey. Violet remembered how disappointed she’d been last year on Valentine’s Day when not a single singing, card-bearing cupid had come her way, and how her face had fallen when messages of love were delivered to other students within earshot. Though she had never spoken about having an interest in any of the boys in their year, there was no denying Tracey had a streak of romanticism in her.

All of a sudden, Violet was aware of just how closely together the two of them were sitting, despite the size of the bench on which they sat. She and Tracey had always been close; they huddled next to each other at meal times, draped arms over one another while studying in the common room, they had even shared each other’s beds dozens of times when Violet was suffering nightmares, or when the cold nights prompted more warmth than the covers could provide. And this was, after all, the  _ second _ time Tracey had made a point of telling Violet how pretty she was. Was that all done in friendship? Violet had no real frame of reference — she’d never been this close with anyone besides Harry, who was her twin brother, and Harry had never made her feel like  _ this _ . 

Violet looked up at Tracey though her eyelashes, a strange fluttering sensation in her stomach. Tracey had her eyes closed and her head tilted back, enjoying the warm sun on her round face. One of her hands rested on the bench between them and, shaking slightly, Violet covered it with her own.

“I think you’re pretty, too,” she heard herself say, and then Violet was leaning forward and pressing her lips against Tracey’s.

She didn’t really know what she was doing. She had seen kisses on television and in the chaste, brief pecks between Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Violet had read about them as well, in some of her story books, but in all of those stories whenever a kiss was described it mentioned a spark or a warmth, or some sort of connection that flowed between the people kissing. Violet felt an eruption of bright sparks in her chest as she pressed her closed lips against Tracey’s, but . . .

After a moment with no sort of reaction, Violet slowly pulled away and found Tracey staring at her. Her brown eyes were wide and, though not cold, they reflected none of the fireworks that Violet was currently feeling. Tracey’s mouth was still closed, and she wasn’t smiling. She pulled her hand out from beneath Violet’s.

“Thank you,” Tracey said slowly, “for calling me pretty. That’s very sweet of you, Violet. I’m really glad to have you as a friend, you know — I think we make a pair of really good friends.”

The eruptions in Violet’s chest ceased abruptly, replaced by what felt like a hollow, infinite void, as though all her insides had been Vanished without a trace.

“O-oh, “ she stammered. “Yeah, I’m — I’m glad we’re friends, too. S-sorry for — I didn’t mean to —”

Tracey stood up and Violet flinched. But the other girl simply held out her hand for Violet to take. Trembling, Violet did so, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly beneath her. Tracey didn’t let go of her hand, but if she had Violet wasn’t sure if she’d been able to keep standing.

“Let’s go and find Cass, okay?” Tracey said, smiling now. Violet didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded meekly instead.

Hand in hand, the two of them headed out of the beautiful flower garden and back into the village. The ringing was starting up in the back of Violet’s head, growing louder and louder with every wobbly step she took. 

They had just reached the outside of the Three Broomsticks when something latched onto to Violet’s arm.

“ _ Ow! _ ” said Harry’s voice from the air, and the pressure disappeared from Violet’s arm. “Vi, what — it’s me! Look, we’ve got to go,  _ now _ — get back under here, quick —”

Before Violet could protest or do anything, really, besides open her mouth in shock, Harry had thrown the Invisibility Cloak over head and ripped her out of Tracey’s grasp. He dragged Violet back in the direction of Honeydukes.

“Malfoy saw me,” he panted, when they were safely through the trapdoor, throwing the cloak back off of them and tucking it beneath his arm. He looked very pale. “Not all of me, just my head — I was throwing snowballs at him, and the cloak slipped — we  _ have _ to get back to the castle —”

Violet, still stunned from her own misadventures, could only stare in shock and allow herself to be pulled along the passage at breakneck speed after her brother. Her head was reeling with too many thoughts and emotions to process a single one at that moment, but Violet knew instinctively that both of them were in terrible trouble, for one reason or another.

Panting, a sharp pain in their sides, Violet and Harry didn’t slow down until they reached the stone slide. Violet shimmied up it first, fast as she could, her sweaty hands slipping on the sides of the chute. She reached the inside of the witch’s hump, tapped it with her wand, hoisted herself through, and turned right around to pull Harry through after her; the hump closed, and just as the two of them jumped out from behind the statue, they heard quick footsteps approaching.

It was Professor Snape. He approached Harry and Violet swiftly, his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of them.

“So,” he said.

There was a look of suppressed triumph about him. Violet tried to look innocent, all too aware of her sweaty face and muddy hands, which she quickly hid in her pockets.

“Come with me, you two,” said Professor Snape.

Harry and Violet didn’t even dare to exchange glances as they followed Snape downstairs, trying to wipe their hands clean in the inside of their robes without him noticing. They walked down the stairs to the dungeons and then into Professor Snape’s office.

Violet had been in here several times before, and had been in serious trouble for nearly all of them. She noted that Professor Snape had acquired a few more interesting things in jars since the last time, all standing on the shelves behind his desk, glinting in the firelight and adding to the threatening atmosphere.

“Sit,” said Professor Snape.

Harry and Violet sat. Snape, however, remained standing. For once, his eyes were fixed solely on Harry.

“Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange story, Potter,” said Professor Snape.

Harry didn’t say anything.

“He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack when he ran into Weasley — apparently alone. Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the back of the head. How do you think that could have happened?”

Harry was doing a very poor job of looking innocently surprised.

“I don’t know, Professor.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition. Can you imagine what it might have been, Potter?”

“No,” said Harry.

“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.”

There was a long silence, made longer by the fact that Violet had apparently forgotten to breathe. She used all of her willpower not to turn and glare at her stupid,  _ stupid _ brother.

“Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry slowly. “If he’s seeing things like —”

“What would your head have been doing in Hogsmeade, Potter?” said Professor Snape softly, and Violet’s whole body tensed at the deadly tone. “Your head is not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of your body has permission to be in Hogsmeade.  _ Either _ of your bodies,” he said, his gaze cutting to Violet, whose insides suddenly rematerialized, only to churn with sickness.

“We know that,” said Harry, still foolishly trying to outwit a man who Violet firmly believed could not be fooled. “It sounds like Malfoy’s having hallucin—”

“Malfoy is not having hallucinations,” snarled Snape, and he bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry’s chair, so that their faces were a foot apart. “If your head was in Hogsmeade, so was the rest of you.”

“We’ve been in Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry. “Like you told — **”**

_ “Both _ of you? Do you mean to tell me you’ve been giving out the Gryffindor password, Potter, to students outside your own House? So soon after another Housemate of yours was attacked?”

Harry, wisely, didn’t say anything. Snape’s thin mouth curled into a horrible smile.

“So,” he said, straightening up again. “Everyone from the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to keep the famous Potter Twins safe from Sirius Black. But the famous Potters are a law unto themselves. Let the ordinary people worry about their safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.”

Violet was going to be sick. She was really, really going to be sick.

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,” Professor Snape said suddenly, staring at Harry with a dark glint in his eyes. “He too was exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us, too. Strutting around the place with his friends and admirers . . . The resemblance between you is uncanny.”

“My dad didn’t  _ strut _ , _ ”  _ said Harry hotly. “And neither do I.”

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,” Professor Snape went on, clearly pressing his advantage, his thin face full of malice like Violet had never seen. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen —”

“SHUT UP!”

Harry was suddenly on his feet, standing in front of Professor Snape with his fists balled at his sides. Violet jumped up, too, desperately pulling at her brother’s arm to make him stand down. Professor Snape had gone rigid, his black eyes flashing dangerously.

_ “What did you say to me, Potter?” _

“I told you to shut up about my dad!” Harry yelled, trying to shrug Violet away from him. “We know the truth, alright? He saved your life! Dumbledore told us! You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for our dad!”

“Harry,  _ please,”  _ Violet whined faintly, trying to insert herself between the two of them before things could get any worse; Professor Snape’s pale hand closed over her shoulder and Violet found herself roughly pushed aside.

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances in which your father saved my life?” Snape whispered. “Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for the precious Potter’s delicate ears?”

Harry bit his lip. No, of course, Dumbledore hadn’t told them the whole truth, and he clearly didn’t want to admit it — but Professor Snape seemed to have guessed as much.

“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter,” he said, a terrible grin twisting his face. “Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism? Then let me correct you — your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn’t gotten cold feet at the last moment. There was nothing heroic about what he did. He was saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts.”

Snape’s uneven, yellowish teeth were bared.

“Turn out your pockets, Potter!” he spat suddenly.

Harry didn’t move. He made the mistake of glancing at Violet, and Professor Snape whirled on her as well.

“Both of you — turn out your pockets, or we go straight to the headmaster! Pull them out, now!”

Cold with dread, Violet slowly pulled out her bag from Zonko’s and set it next to Harry’s, and then the Marauder’s Map.

Snape picked up the Zonko’s bags.

“Our friends gave us those,” Harry said at once; Violet couldn’t believe he was still trying to lie his way out of this. They’d been caught. There wasn’t a point — but Harry just wasn’t getting the memo. “They — they brought them back from Hogsmeade last time —”

“Indeed? And you’ve been carrying them around ever since? How very touching . . . and what is this?”

Professor Snape had picked up the map, and he was looking right at Violet now. Violet tried with all her might not to be sick all over the office floor.

“It’s —”

“Spare bit of parchment,” Harry interrupted with a shrug.

“I didn’t ask you, boy,” Snape snapped, his eyes now boring into Violet’s. “What  _ is _ it?”

Violet shrugged soundlessly. Professor Snape turned the map over in his hands, his eyes never leaving Violet.

“A bit of parchment . . . Surely you don’t need such a very  _ old _ piece of parchment,” he said. “Why don’t I just — throw this away?”

His hand moved toward the fire.

“No!” said Harry and Violet together.

“So!” said Snape, eyes flashing. “Is this another treasured gift from your little  _ friends _ ? Or is it — something else? A letter, perhaps, written invisible ink? Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without passing the dementors?”

Violet’s eyes welled with tears. Snape’s lip curled nastily.

“Let me see, let me see . . .” he muttered, taking out his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk. “Reveal your secrets!” he said, touching the wand to the parchment.

Nothing happened. Violet clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.

“Show yourself!” Professor Snape said, tapping the map sharply.

It stayed blank. Beside her, Harry was taking deep, calming breaths.

“Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!” Snape said, hitting the map with his wand.

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the smooth surface of the map.

_ “Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.” _

Snape froze. Violet stared at the message and felt her heart stall in her chest. But the map didn’t stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first.

“ _ Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.” _

Violet was certain it couldn’t get any worse. She was, of course, wrong.

“ _ Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor.” _

Violet closed her eyes in horror. When she’d opened them, the map had had its last word.

“ _ Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball _ .”

Harry and Violet waited for the blow to fall.

“So . . .” said Professor Snape softly. “We’ll see about this . . .”

He strode across to his fire, seized a fistful of glittering powder from a jar on the fireplace, and threw it into the flames.

“Lupin!” Snape called into the fire. “I want a word!”

Utterly bewildered, Violet and Harry stared into the fire. A large shape had appeared in it, revolving very fast. Seconds later, Professor Lupin was clambering out of the fireplace, brushing ash off his shabby robes.

“You called, Severus?” said Lupin mildly.

“I certainly did,” said Professor Snape, his face contorted with fury as he strode back to his desk. “I have just asked the Potters to empty their pockets.  _ Miss _ Potter was carrying this.”

Professor Snape pointed at the parchment, on which the words of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, were still shining. An odd, closed expression appeared on Professor Lupin’s face.

“Well?” said Snape.

Lupin continued to stare at the map. Violet had the impression that he was doing some very quick thinking.

_ “Well?” _ said Professor Snape again. “This parchment is plainly full of Dark Magic. This is supposed to be your area of expertise, Lupin. Where do you imagine Miss Potter got such a thing?”

Professor Lupin looked up and, by the merest half-glance in Harry and Violet’s direction, warned them not to interrupt.

“Full of Dark Magic?” he repeated mildly. “Do you really think so, Severus? It looks to me as though it is merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who tries to read it. Childish, but surely not dangerous? I imagine Violet got it from a joke shop —”

“Indeed?” said Professor Snape. His jaw had gone rigid with anger. “You think a joke shop could supply her with such a thing? You don’t think it more likely that she got it  _ directly from the manufacturers?” _

Violet looked quickly at Lupin and saw him do a funny sort of double blink. She had no idea what Professor Snape was talking about, but Professor Lupin was doing an admirable job of  _ pretending _ he didn’t.

“You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of these people?” he said. “Violet, Harry, do you know any of these people?”

“No,” said Harry quickly; Violet shook her head slowly.

“You see, Severus?” said Professor Lupin, turning back to Professor Snape. “It looks like a Zonko product to me —”

Right on cue, Ron came bursting into the office. He was completely out of breath, and he stopped just short of Snape’s desk, clutching the stitch in his chest and trying to speak.

“I — gave — the twins — that — stuff,” he choked. “Bought — it . . . in Zonko’s . . . ages — ago.”

“Well!” said Professor Lupin, clapping his hands together and looking around cheerfully. “That seems to clear that up! Severus, I’ll take this back, shall I?” He folded the map and tucked it inside his robes. “Violet, Harry, Ron, come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay — excuse us, Severus —”

Violet didn’t dare look at Professor Snape as they left his office. She, her brother, and Ron followed Professor Lupin all the way back to the entrance hall before speaking. Then Harry turned to Lupin.

“Professor, I —”

“I don’t want to hear explanations,” said Professor Lupin shortly. He glanced around the empty entrance hall and lowered his voice. “I happen to know that this map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago. Yes, I know it’s a map,” he said as the three of them looked amazed. “I don’t want to know how it fell into your possession. I am, however,  _ astounded _ that neither of you handed it in. Particularly after what happened the last time a student left information about the castle lying around. And I can’t let you have it back, Violet.”

Violet had expected that, but began to cry again anyways. She felt a sob perched at the back of her throat and didn’t dare open her mouth to protest. It was Harry who spoke up.

“Why did Snape think we’d got it from the manufacturers?” he said.

“Because . . .” Professor Lupin hesitated, “because these map makers would have wanted to lure you out of school. They’d think it extremely entertaining.”

“Do you  _ know _ them?” Harry asked, sounding impressed.

“We’ve met,” Professor Lupin said shortly, but it was obvious to Violet that there was much more to it than that. She was trying to get her tears under control to ask about it, but was Professor Lupin was looking between her and Harry more seriously than ever.

“Don’t expect me to cover up for you again, children. I cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously. But I would have thought that what you have heard when the dementors draw near you would have had more of an effect on you. Your parents gave their lives to keep you two alive. A poor way to repay them — gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks.”

He walked away, leaving Violet feeling worse by far than she had at any point in Professor Snape’s office. Harry and Ron were already heading away, Ron muttering that it was his fault while Harry feebly tried to defend him. Violet was left alone in the entrance hall, with tears in her eyes and a terrible hollowness in her stomach. Worst of all, the ringing was back in her ears.

It stung that Professor Lupin had not only confiscated the map, but also refused to tell them how he  _ knew _ it was a map in the first place. Fred and George had been adamant that they were the only ones who knew about it before giving it to Harry and Violet, and before that it had been sitting in Filch’s office for god-only-knows how many years —

But Lupin had known about that, too. Hadn’t he just said he knew for a fact the map had been confiscated by Filch? How could he have known such a thing unless . . .

Unless the Marauder’s Map was taken from  _ him _ .

Violet, nearly at the entrance of the staircase leading down the Slytherin common room, whipped around and sprinted back in the direction she’d just come.

Her feet pounded on the flagstones of the entrance hall and the marble of the grand staircase, threatening to draw the attention of Mr. Filch, but Violet didn’t care a whit. A dozen puzzle pieces had just fallen into place inside her head and, oh, she’d been so  _ stupid!  _ It was all right there! Violet rushed up the first floor and skidded loudly on the landing as she turned straight up the second; her heart was hammering as though she’d been running for miles and when she drew to a halt outside the familiar, not quite shut door of the Defense Against the Dark Art’s teachers’ office, she had to force herself to suck in several great, deep breaths of air. The ringing was so so loud she felt as though her head might explode.

Violet reached for the doorknob, but the door flew open before she had even touched it. It hit the stone wall with a loud bang. Professor Lupin, who had been standing over his desk with his back to the door, whirled around in alarm.

“Moony!” Violet said, pointing a single, shaking finger toward her professor.  _ “You’re _ Moony!"

Professor Lupin’s mouth fell open.

“I — what —?”

“It was  _ you _ , _ ” _ Violet said, striding into the office with her finger still raised; she heard the door slam shut behind her.  _ “You _ sent me the comb for Christmas, didn’t you? You’re the one who gave it to my mother!”

From across the room, Violet heard Professor Lupin gulp.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Oh, well — yes, I —”

“You knew my parents!” Violet thundered. Her whole body was quaking, tense and taut like a compacted spring. “I mean you didn’t just  _ know _ them, they weren’t just schoolmates, were they? You were their friend — you and Black, you were their friends.”

“Yes, I — I did know them,” said Lupin, still in that same faint voice. “We were very close.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Violet snapped, advancing another step toward him. “Me and Harry — all this time, you never said! You must’ve known who we were as soon as you saw us on the train, and — and in all of our classes — the other night, with the dementor, too. And sending me that comb without a name or a note — Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Violet, please,” said Professor Lupin, raising his hands calmly as she continued toward him. “I know you’re very upset, and I don’t expect you to understand —”

“Try me!” Violet snarled. A reckless rage was overtaking her, the same numbing anger that she’d been filled with on the night they’d run away from the Dursleys, only this time it was fueled by the pain of recent rejection and the confusion that had taken hold in her heart. And Lupin, meekly standing there, provided a fine target to exercise her fury on. 

“I’m so tired of people keeping things from me because they think I’m too young or too stupid to know what’s going on! Nobody told me and Harry that Sirius Black was friends with our dad; we had to find that out for ourselves, did you know that? We had to overhear it on  _ accident _ because nobody — not Mr. Weasley, not Hagrid, not even  _ Dumbledore _ — will tell us things they think will be too much for us to hear! We’re not  _ children _ —”

“Yes, you are,” Lupin said, his voice suddenly sharp. “I’m sorry, Violet, you may not want to hear it, but you and Harry  _ are _ children. There are people who are doing their best to look out for you and protect you from the horrors of the world, not because they think you are incapable of handling them, but because you shouldn’t  _ have _ to. Do you understand that?”

“I don’t care,” said Violet, fists balled at her sides. “We have a right to know — our parents are dead and we can’t even remember them. All we’ve got are stories from other people, and nobody will even give us that!”

“Violet, I promise you, no one is trying to keep you from information about your parents —”

“Then  _ tell _ me!” Violet pleaded. Her voice cracked painfully, and she realized that she must’ve been crying the whole time. “Tell me about my mother,  _ please _ — you were her friend, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lupin said, though it came out barely more than a whisper; he cleared his throat and said, again, “Yes, I . . . I was her friend. And James’ friend, and — and Sirius. We were in school together.”

“That’s when you made the map, isn’t it? You all made it together, didn’t you?”

Lupin drew up short for a moment, then lowered his eyes and said, “Yes . . . yes we did . . . James — your father was a brilliant wizard, even at school, and Sirius was always capable of very powerful spells. I was — well, I suppose I  _ am _ quite clever, and good at finding information about the sort of enchantments we would need.”

“Who was my dad?” Violet demanded. “You’re Moony — who are all the rest?”

“Prongs,” Lupin said, going oddly pale. “James was Prongs, and Sirius was Padfoot.”

“So that makes Pettigrew ‘Wormtail,’” Violet said, feeling an odd wave of triumph when Lupin raised his head sharply, clearly shocked.

“How do you know about Peter?”

“I read about him,” Violet lied, easily, “when I was researching Black. He killed him. Blew him to pieces, even though they used to be friends, because Pettigrew stood up to him after Black betrayed our parents.”

A terrible accusation welled up inside of Violet, aimed right at the heart of the tall, frail man in front of her.

“Where were  _ you?” _ she spat, sickly pleased when Professor Lupin flinched.

“I was — I was away,” he said hesitantly. “Abroad. I came back as soon as I heard what had happened to James and Lily, but there was — there wasn’t anything I could do for them by then . . .” He shook his head sadly. “Little over a year before, I was helping them plan their wedding — then I had to help arrange the funeral.”

“Were you at the wedding?” Violet asked. “Hagrid showed us pictures; Black’s in them, some of them, but not you.”

“I was ill,” said Professor Lupin. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it to the ceremony.”

“You get ill a lot, don’t you?” Violet said before she could stop herself. Lupin looked at her sharply and held her gaze for a long, tense moment.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” he said shortly. “But that didn’t stop me from attending other important events, usually. Birthdays, anniversaries and the like. I . . .” He swallowed again. “I was there the night you and your brother were born.”

“What?” Violed gasped. Lupin let out a small, bitter laugh.

“Oh, yes — I very nearly didn’t make it in time, but everyone got to be there in the end, me and Sirius and — and me,” he said, frowning slightly. “James would’ve been devastated if we’d missed it.”

“I — I don’t remember you,” Violet said, and Lupin laughed hollowly again.

“What, at your birth? I’d be more concerned if you  _ did _ remember me there, Violet. That’s not the sort of thing most people are able to do. But I  _ was _ there, out in the hall, waiting with the others . . . Sirius nearly broke down the door to get in when we heard Harry crying — James named him godfather right then and there, with all the nurses screaming, Lily shouting for us to get out. And then the shock on James’ and Lily’s faces when the Healer said to get ready for the  _ other _ one to come out, meaning you, of course. It  _ was _ a shock, really, but I think James was too excited to be overwhelmed by the thought of twins. Sirius was holding Harry and Lily was shouting again and your father grabbed ahold of my arm and he — he said —”

Professor Lupin choked off suddenly. His mouth shut and he bowed his head, letting his greying hair fall over his forehead and into his eyes. Violet realized that he was crying, too. After a moment, Lupin lifted his head again, drawing in a slow, deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was very calm.

“I’m sorry, Violet,” Professor Lupin said, “but I am . . . very tired. It’s been a long day, and I’m sure you’re tired as well. We can talk about this some other time, if you like. I know you must have so many questions, but I — I can’t answer any more today. Please.”

Any other time, hearing such a plaintive, desperate plea would have set Violet cowering, apologizing until she was blue in the face and eager to do whatever she could to make it right. But this was not any other time. This was now, and though the ringing in her ears had abated since Professor Lupin had started talking, now that he’d stopped she could feel it building up again, louder and louder like a distant insect swarm.

A memory was dragging itself out of the recesses of her mind. Not an old memory, not even a particularly strong one, but something about it stood out to her. It took form as she stood there, staring at Professor Lupin. Just a snippet of words that she’d heard and briefly puzzled over. Professor Snape, explaining why he wouldn’t sign her Hogsmeade permission form . . . and  _ not _ explaining why he thought someone else might have . . .

The memory sharpened and clicked into place.

“You’re my godfather,” Violet said quietly, “aren’t you?”

Professor Lupin didn’t move. His head remained bowed, though she could see his shoulders shaking slightly.

“Aren’t you?” she repeated, louder.

Lupin sucked in a deep, rattling gulp of air and looked up at Violet.

“James said, ‘The next one’s yours to look after’,” he said thickly. “And I don’t suppose I’ve done a very good job of that, have I?”

The ringing in Violet’s head ramped up to a claxon, a deafening siren, a shrill, ear-splitting, sourceless scream. She had a godfather.  _ She _ had a godfather, one who wasn’t a murderer, who hadn’t betrayed her parents and left them for dead. And here he was right in front of her, right now. After all this time of being all alone in the world without a soul to rely on besides her twin brother, now . . . 

_ “Where were you?”  _ Violet heard herself ask again. “Wh— why am I just learning about you  _ now? _ If you were supposed to look after me then — then why —”

“When your parents were k—” Lupin stopped, swallowed hard, then tried again, “When James and Lily passed away, everything was thrown into chaos. There were plenty of arguments among those of us closest to them about what should be done with you and Harry; several families, friends of your parents, wanted to take you in and raise you as their own but . . . but Albus was adamant you should be with your  _ real _ family. Lily’s sister and her husband . . . He said you would be safest there.”

“But what about  _ you?” _ Violet pushed. “If our dad made you my godfather, why didn’t we go to you?”

Professor Lupin laughed again, a more broken sound than before. His hands were curled into fists on the surface of the desk, thin and white-knuckled.

“As much as I would have liked that, Violet, it was never an option. Everyone talked in circles around it, bless them, but I always knew that I was —  _ am _ unfit to be anyone’s guardian.”

“Because you’re a werewolf?” said Violet flatly. Lupin’s head jerked up. She could see his eyes now, wide and startled in his tearstained face. He’d gone very, very pale.

“You really are brilliant, aren’t you?” she heard him say softly, after a long moment of staring. “How long have you known?”

“Since Halloween,” Violet said, licking her lips nervously. Her mouth was incredibly dry. “When I saw you drink that potion Professor Snape brought . . . I knew what it was. He let me help make it.”

“Did he?” said Lupin with a weak chuckle. His head drooped once more. “Yes, that sounds like him . . . I suppose I should be grateful Severus hasn’t ‘accidentally’ blurted it out in the middle of class, yet.”

“But what does it  _ matter?” _ said Violet, taking a step toward Professor Lupin, who once again looked up at her in surprise.

“What do you mean, what does it matter?”

“Why didn’t I know you before now! You’re only a werewolf twelve days a year — what about the rest of the time? Why didn’t you ever write or visit or — why didn’t you take care of me like you promised?”

“What could I have given you that you didn’t already have?” Lupin said, finally straightening up to face her. “I’m — I had no money to support you with, no house fit for children to be in. Albus insisted that you and Harry be raised away from magic from your own protection, and my presence would have only complicated things. You didn’t need me intruding on your normal, comfortable life. Your aunt and uncle have looked after you, loved you, seen that you were taken c—”

“They don’t  _ love _ us,” Violet said harshly, and Lupin blinked at her surprise. “They’ve never loved us — Aunt Petunia  _ hates _ magic, she hates having us in the house! We never even knew we were wizards until Hagrid showed up at the shack to take us away to Diagon Alley —”

“Shack?” Lupin said sharply. “What shack?”

“The little shack in the middle of the ocean Uncle Vernon took us to, to get away from the letters,” Violet said, “when Hogwarts was trying to tell us who we were. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia didn’t want us to know, they wanted to keep us locked in that cupboard forever so we’d never find out what we were —”

“Locked in the — Violet, what are you — ?”

“THE CUPBOARD WHERE WE SLEPT!” shouted Violet at the top of her lungs. “The cupboard under the stairs where they kept us,  _ locked _ us in, for days and days at a time because we were bad, or in the way, or because they felt like it! They kept us in there in the dark and they never told us about magic or our parents or any of it, and we weren’t allowed to ask questions because they’d hit us if we did, and we couldn’t talk to anyone or tell anyone what they were doing to us or we’d be in  _ more _ trouble, and Harry and I thought they were the only family we had! We  _ waited _ for you! We prayed and begged and dreamed for someone to come and take us away from the Dursleys because we  _ knew _ it wasn’t fair to live like that — we waited, and you  _ never _ came! Nobody ever came for us! And every year we get sent back to it, back to  _ them _ , so they can shout at and hit us and lock us in and put bars on our windows and shut us away again. And nobody  _ ever _ came to help us!”

It was like a dam had broken inside of her. After a lifetime of plugging and patching and cleaning up any little leaks, the whole thing had finally crumbled from the overwhelming weight of emotion behind it. She was crying so hard she couldn’t see, and every new crack in her voice hurt more than the last. Violet was shaking all over. She couldn’t breathe save for the sharp, shallow gasps she managed to suck in between the sobs that wracked her thin shoulders.

Professor Lupin looked stricken.

“Violet, I —” His throat worked soundlessly for a long moment. “I am so, so sorry . . . I didn’t know —”

“You should have,” Violet spat with all the venom she could muster. “You  _ should _ have known. You  _ should _ have been there to look after us. To  _ protect us _ .”

Professor Lupin flinched as though Violet had reached out and slapped him. Part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to make him feel even the tiniest fraction of the pain she had felt and was still feeling.

But that pain had become unbearable now. Violet had ripped away the last shackle of control the Dursleys had over her with her bare hands and now she felt raw and bloody and exposed. She felt a terrible vulnerability as she stood there, the horrific truth of her childhood hanging in the air between herself and Professor Lupin. It was too much. It  _ hurt _ too much.

Lupin shouted something after her as Violet turned and ran, wrenching the door open in a blind fury. She didn’t hear what he said. Didn’t care and didn’t  _ want _ to care. All she wanted to do was run away again, and that’s exactly what she did.


	15. Lupin's Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The next morning, Violet did not rise with the other girls in her dormitory. She remained in bed, curtains drawn tight around her, and listened silently as all the other girls got dressed around her. She didn’t attend breakfast, or lunch, and still hadn’t moved from beneath the covers by the time evening began to roll around.

The tears had been coming almost nonstop. Violet’s pillow was wet but her eyes were dry and grainy; she’d had only a few moment of peace after waking up that morning, groggy and oblivious, before the memories of the night before all came rushing back in at once. Her confrontation with Professor Lupin and all the long-buried truths that had come out of him flooded her mind, and Violet began to cry at once.

The terrible anger that had taken over her last night had long since faded. Now there was only a deep, lingering pain; a bruise on her soul, too far beneath the surface for her to massage it away. Violet felt wounded.

Yesterday had been terribly draining. First the whole mess with Tracey — which Violet was too emotionally exhausted to even  _ begin _ thinking how to go about resolving — and then the fear of being caught by Professor Snape, and topping it all off with the revelation about Professor Lupin and all the information she’d revealed to him.

What would Harry say if he found out she’d gone and blabbed the truth about life with the Dursleys? He was the one who always thought they should be strong and silent together, tough it out to stop anyone from worrying about them. Harry hadn’t wanted to talk to the Minister of Magic or Professor Dumbledore or even Ron and the rest of the Weasleys about what they went through at the hands of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Harry and Violet had been taught, over and over, to keep their mouths shut, and Violet had always followed her brother’s lead in thinking that was for the best.

Would he be angry with her for breaking that silence? If asked about it, would he call her a liar and try to keep acting like everything was fine?

Violet was in the beginning stages of an oncoming panic attack when the dormitory door creaked open.

“Potter?”

Violet lifted her head. That wasn’t Tracey’s voice, or any of the other girls she knew belonged in the dormitory. Whoever it belonged to took a few steps into the room and said, louder, “Violet Potter, are you in here?”

“Y-yes,” Violet said, quickly sitting up and wiping her face. She peered out from between the curtains around her bed and found the new fifth year prefect, Zoe Acrington, standing in the doorway. The older girl looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Have you been in here all day?”

“No,” Violet lied. “What do you want?”

Zoe’s eyes flashed knowingly, but she didn’t pry further. “Professor Snape has been looking for you,” she said. “He’s waiting in the common room.”

Violet’s blood ran cold.

“W-why?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Zoe mildly. “You’d better hurry and get dressed; he’s not one to be kept waiting.”

She turned and left the dormitory, closing the door behind her and leaving Violet alone once more, frozen in bed. Why would Professor Snape be looking for her? Was he still angry about yesterday?

Kicking the blankets off herself and yanking the curtains open, Violet jumped to her feet and got dressed. She tried to smooth her hair down to little effect and forced herself to take several deep, calming breaths before opening the door and climbing the staircase into the common room.

Emerging from the stairs, Violet felt eyes on her from all sides. Zoe was seated with some other students by the window, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were gathered in their usual place in front of the fire, as well as a few second years dotted around the tables at the edges of the room; all of them were silent, watching as Violet slowly stepped out into the common room.

“Potter,” said Professor Snape, and Violet’s attention snapped to him, standing ominously next to the bulletin board; the unmistakable cause for the tension and silence in the room. “With me.”

Still feeling the half dozen sets of eyes boring in her back, Violet had no choice but to quickly follow Professor Snape out into the corridor.

He didn’t look back to make sure she was following, nor did he keep a pace that was easy for Violet’s to keep up with; she had to take two steps for every long stride Snape made and was starting to feel winded by the time they reached the entrance hall. But instead of leading her across it to the other side of the dungeons as Violet expected, Professor Snape immediately turned and headed up the marble staircase. 

A sick feeling began to bubble in the pit of Violet’s stomach. She didn’t know where she was being taken, but it felt as though she were being led to the gallows.

Their destination didn’t become clear until Snape took a sharp turn down a corridor on the third floor and stopped abruptly in front of a great, gleaming griffon statue.

“Shock-o-Choc,” snapped Professor Snape, and the griffon leapt aside to reveal a familiar, slowly rotating spiral staircase, which he gestured for Violet to step onto. She did, and Snape followed, and in silence they rode up to the great oak doors that were the entrance to the office of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

Violet felt as though she had a hummingbird in her chest in place of a heart, flapping its little wings to try and beat its way out of her ribcage. She’d only been brought to Dumbledore’s office twice before, and both of those visits were because something really urgent and horrible had happened. Had Dumbledore been told about them sneaking off to Hogsmeade? Was she about to be expelled?

But then Professor Snape pushed the doors open without knocking, and Violet saw Professor Lupin sitting in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk, and she realized that expulsion was the absolute  _ least _ of her worries.

“Hello, Violet,” said Professor Dumbledore, smiling kindly at her from behind his enormous, claw-footed desk. “I’m glad that you were able to join us. Thank you, Severus, for bringing her. You may go enjoy the feast.”

Professor Snape didn’t move. He was staring at Professor Lupin, looking suspiciously between him and Dumbledore. Lupin, Violet had to admit, looked terrible. Despite the shabbiness of his robes, during lessons he always managed to look very confident and put together — there was nothing confident about the man now hunched forward in his chair, hands white and shaking as they were clasped tightly in front of him, hair unkempt and covering his eyes. He looked on the verge of shaking himself apart.

“What is this about?” Snape asked, looking straight at Dumbledore, who simply smiled back at him.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Severus,” said Professor Dumbledore. “Professor Lupin has expressed some concern about Violet’s recent classwork, that is all.”

Professor Snape held his ground.

“What is there to be concerned about?” he asked. “Miss Potter is a model student, and as she is a member of my House I believe I should have been made aware if there were any —”

“Let him stay.”

For a moment, Violet didn’t register the statement as coming from Professor Lupin. It was a rough, hollow sort of voice, and not at all what she associated with the man hunched before her. Dumbledore gave him a long, searching look, then glanced at Professor Snape and nodded.

“Very well,” Professor Dumbledore said softly. “Close the door please, Severus, if you would?”

Snape was also giving Lupin a hard, searching sort of look. Violet was wrong; he’d not looked suspicious before, merely curious.  _ Now _ he looked suspicious. Professor Snape was very hesitant to turn around as well, as if he didn’t want the room to be at his back as he closed the heavy oak doors with a dull thud. Not for the first time, Violet felt as though were being sealed inside of a tomb.

“Violet?”

She looked up. Professor Dumbledore was smiling at her now, a thin hand extended toward the empty seat beside Professor Lupin. Violet gulped.

In the few steps that it took for her to cross and room and gingerly sink into the handsome wooden chair, Violet’s stomach had twisted itself into a half dozen intricate sailor’s knots and her heartbeat had reached a pace that she was certain wasn’t healthy. But Professor Lupin did not stir as she approached. Now that she was closer to him, she could hear his breathing as well, ragged and shallow. He was clenching his hands together so tightly it was a wonder he hadn’t broken his fingers.

“Shall I draw you up a chair, Severus?” asked Professor Dumbledore, raising his wand slightly.

“I’ll stand,” Professor Snape said shortly, and he lowered it once more. Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him on top of the desk and turned his full attention to Violet, bright blue eyes gleaming over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked simply.

Violet opened her mouth to reply. Only instead of saying, “Fine,” like she meant to, the only sound that came out was a very faint, very frightened squeak. She closed her mouth again and bit down hard on the inside of her lip.

“I realize you must be very confused, being called up here like this,” said Professor Dumbledore, not unkindly. “I want to assure you that you are not in any sort of trouble, nor is anything the matter, Violet. No one is hurt or in danger. You are completely safe.”

With Lupin having a meltdown beside her and Professor Snape hovering just out of view behind her back, Violet didn’t feel very safe at all. Rather, she knew that Professor Dumbledore would never let her come to harm under his watch, but she did not feel  _ comfortable _ in her current predicament. She couldn’t say any of this, however; even if she felt brave enough to speak (which she didn’t), her throat was now doing a funny sort of spasm that felt like it might close up if she tried to talk again. So she sat, silent and very anxious, and waited for someone to tell her what was going on.

Professor Dumbledore must have been able to read her thoughts. He looked intently at her for another moment before mercifully averting his gaze.

“I’ve just finished speaking with Professor Lupin about the conversation you two shared last night,” said Professor Dumbledore quietly, glancing over his glasses at Lupin, who still did not move. “He came to me in a state of upset regarding certain things that you said to him, Violet. Certain things that were revealed . . .”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Violet heard herself whisper through her white, shaking lips. She wasn’t sure if anyone had heard her until Professor Lupin raised his head, just enough to see his eyes beneath his hair. “About what — about  _ you _ , and I swear I won’t, I swear —”

Her words failed her again. Violet dropped her eyes to floor. There was a tiny, soft red feather on the floor at the base of Dumbledore’s desk, and she fixated on it to keep herself from falling completely to pieces. There was another long, nervous silence.

“While that is very reassuring to hear,” Professor Dumbledore said gently, “it is not the matter that I have called you hear to discuss.”

“What is this  _ about _ , Albus?” Snape said suddenly, his voice so close and loud that Violet couldn’t help but flinch. Dumbledore raised a hand, though whether to sooth her or admonish Professor Snape, Violet wasn’t sure. She honed in on the little feather on the floor so she wouldn’t have to meet all the eyes that she could now feel on her.

“Violet?” said Professor Dumbledore. “Do you know why it is you’re here?”

A million nightmarish scenarios flashed through Violet’s head; she knew about something she shouldn’t and now they were going to erase her memory; Professor Lupin was so upset with her he was going to leave the school; Dumbledore was going to write home to Aunt Petunia and ask if any of it was true and she’d be so  _ angry _ —

“There, there, my dear,” said Dumbledore, and a moment later a soft white handkerchief had appeared on the desk in front of her; Violet realized belatedly that she had started to cry. “I’m sorry for this, it is not my wish to upset you . . . but I’m afraid that what has been shared cannot go unaddressed. Would you be more comfortable if your brother were to be h—”

“ _ No _ ,” Violet gasped, shaking her head so hard it made her dizzy. “Don’t bring Harry into it. Please.”

“Alright,” Professor Dumbledore said placidly, folding his hands in front of himself once more. “Then know that whatever is shared in this office will not go beyond Professor Lupin, Professor Snape, and myself. You are not in any trouble at all, Violet, please remember that.”

“Then why am I here?” said Violet, tearing her gaze from the feather to confront Dumbledore’s stare directly. “W-what do you want from me?”

“I would like to know the truth,” said Dumbledore. “Perhaps even some truths that you may not be comfortable sharing, or find too painful. I would like, whenever you are ready, for you to tell me about life with your aunt and uncle.”

Violet blinked.

“What about it?”

“Professor Lupin says you spoke to him about your family. What he heard from you raised enough concerns for him to seek me out. I am concerned as well by what was relayed to me . . . I would like to ask you some questions, Violet, if I may?”

Violet didn’t know why he was asking for her permission; it wasn’t really like she could say no the Headmaster of the school, no matter how badly she wanted to.

“What do you want to know?” she asked numbly. Professor Dumbledore gave her a measured, searching look.

“Do you get along with your aunt and uncle?”

“No,” Violet said.

“What about your cousin?”

“Not really.”

“Do you look forward to seeing your family during the summer holidays?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

Violet didn’t answer. She wanted to go back to looking at the feather, but was afraid to drop Professor Dumbledore’s gaze. It was a compulsion now to keep eye contact.

“Are you happy at home, Violet?”

“Hogwarts is my home,” she said without thinking, and at once knew it to be the truth. The house on Privet Drive had stopped feeling like home years ago, ever since they first laid eyes on the castle. She knew that wasn’t what Professor Dumbledore had meant, but it  _ was _ the truth.

“What about the home you share with your aunt and uncle?” Dumbledore pressed gently. “Are you happy there?”

“No.”

“Do you feel safe there?”

Again, Violet didn’t answer. Professor Dumbledore settled back in his seat, fingers steepled in front of him, and regarded her. Violet decided she didn’t care for being regarded. She swallowed and forced herself not to look down at the feather.

“When Professor Lupin came to me, he presented the concern that Harry and yourself might be unsafe in your family’s home,” said Professor Dumbledore, “and cited several examples of worrying behavior you told him about. Do you know what I’m talking about, Violet?”

She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have kept her big, stupid mouth shut and kept her temper in check, and none of this would be happening. If she’d done that then she wouldn’t be sitting here right now, dodging softball questions about her home life and feeling like her chest was about to collapse in on itself. 

“Yes,” she said quietly. Violet had to blink, hard, several times to clear the tears from her eyes. Dumbledore was still watching her calmly, staring — Violet wasn’t sure if he had blinked at all since she’d sat down.

“You told Professor Lupin that your aunt and uncle have hit you,” Professor Dumbledore said seriously, “is this true?”

Violet didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead she jerked her head in a way that she hoped was understood as a nod.

“And have they denied you meals as well?”

Violet shrugged unhelpfully. The ringing sound was starting in her ears again, only this time it was very far away, like it was being carried to her on the wind.

“Have you ever told anyone about this treatment, my dear?”

“Yes,” Violet mumbled. Beside her, for the first time since she had sat down, Professor Lupin stirred.

“Who?” he rasped, in that same small voice as before. He lifted his head enough that Violet could see the rest of his face; the circles beneath his eyes looked even darker than usual, and the rest of his face was blotchy and pale. It was obvious he’d been crying, too.

“Fudge,” Violet said. “The Minister, I mean.”

“I assume this was when Cornelius encountered Harry and yourself in Diagon Alley?” Professor Dumbledore asked, and Violet nodded jerkily once more.

“After we ran. He asked why.”

“And you told him it was because your family had struck you?”

“N-no, not exactly . . .” Violet squirmed uncomfortably. “But I told . . .”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder, where she assumed Professor Snape was still lurking just out of her peripheral vision, but didn’t say anything. Dumbledore looked up over the top of Violet’s head.

“Severus?” he said quietly. “Did you know about this?”

“I had my suspicions,” said Professor Snape at once, “when Miss Potter arrived in my class with noticeable bruising on her face. She confirmed to me that her uncle was responsible for it.”

Lupin made a noise beside her, a low sort of moan. Professor Dumbledore’s expression was an unreadable now as it ever was, but some of the warmth had gone out of his eyes as he stared at Professor Snape.

“And why did you not bring this to my attention?”

“Getting smacked around never killed anyone,” said Professor Snape stiffly.

_ “Severus . . .” _ breathed Professor Lupin, sounding horror-struck. Violet still couldn’t see Snape, but she heard him shift behind her.

“Besides, I assumed you were already aware of the situation, Headmaster. I was under the impression the Potters were being kept under a close watch. Surely such mistreatment would have been reported before now.”

A tense silence hung in the office. Violet, unable to take it anymore, finally dropped her eyes back to the feather on the floor. It was right where she’d left it, slightly crooked and coated in a fine layer of dust. She tried to count how many soft little barbs were running up each side.

“Violet?” Professor Dumbledore’s voice prompted her to look back up before she’d counted past a dozen. His wrinkled brow was furrowed as he looked at her. “How long has this been going on?”

Violet shrugged again, and said, “Always, I suppose.”

Professor Lupin made the noise again and pitched forward in his seat. Violet thought he might fall, but instead he caught himself on his knees, curling in on himself.

“I should have been there,” Lupin moaned, voice muffled and broken. “I should have known . . . I should have been . . .”

“I did tell you that it might be good for the children to see you, Remus,” Dumbledore said calmly, and Professor Lupin’s head shot up once more.

“You didn’t tell me they were being  _ abused _ , Albus!” he shouted. “How much did you know about this? Why wasn’t I  _ told?” _

“I offered to keep you informed of Harry and Violet’s lives, Remus, and you repeatedly told me —”

“You know damn well that’s not what I mean,” Lupin growled, leaning forward to rest an arm on Dumbledore’s desk. “I would have done anything —  _ anything _ — to help them if I’d known what was happening, and you know that!”

“I do know that,” said Professor Dumbledore quietly. “I am not the one you ought to be making such assurances to, Remus.”

Professor Lupin’s hand clenched into a tight, shaking fist on top of Dumbledore’s desk. His breathing was hard and ragged, and Violet couldn’t stop herself from flinching when he turned his head toward her. Professor Lupin turned in his seat to face her fully.

“Violet. I —” he started, but paused immediately. Violet watched his throat work furiously and the way his shoulders trembled — anything to avoid meeting his eyes. Lupin wet his lips and tried again. “When Lily and James named me your godfather, it was the happiest moment of my entire life. To be given that trust and responsibility was . . . it was very touching, but also overwhelming. I was young — we were  _ all _ very young, and when they were — when they passed away, there was no question that you and Harry should be sent to live with your remaining relatives. They were your family, you should’ve . . . you should have been  _ safe _ with them, and for all this time I assumed that you were. But I suppose I didn’t know that.

“It’s true that Albus offered to keep me informed . . . an offer which I declined out of a desire, perhaps misguidedly so, to protect you. You know, Violet that I’m a —” Lupin paused a moment, throat working painfully as he swallowed “— that I am afflicted with lycanthropy. Even barring all other circumstances, it was never possible for me to care for you and your brother in any kind of meaningful way. And I thought that my presence would be — well,  _ confusing _ , for lack of a better word. I’m not a blood relative, and clearly I don’t belong in the nice sort of Muggle neighborhood where your aunt and uncle live. I reasoned to myself that it would be too complicated to explain who I was, why I wasn’t able to be there for you, why I wouldn’t be available at all during certain times . . . I convinced myself that you didn’t need me. I thought — I  _ really _ thought that I was doing the right thing by staying out of your lives but now I —”

Professor Lupin’s head fell forward again. He took several deep, slow breaths before looking up once more, looking imploring at Violet.

“If I had known, or even thought for a moment that you were unhappy or being mistreated, I would have done everything in my power to make you safe. I would  _ never _ have left you and Harry alone with those people if I didn’t believe that you were being cared for and loved the way your parents would have wanted. And now that I  _ do _ know, things will never go back to the way they were, Violet, I promise you. I promise.”

There was a faint, distant sound of breaking glass, and Violet’s world shattered down around her.

_ Don’t you dare tell anyone  _ — _ Don’t talk about family business  _ —  _ Don’t you say a word to anyone about what goes on in this house  _ —  _ Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you  _ —  _ Keep quiet and keep out of the bloody way if you want to keep eating meals for the week  _ —  _ Don’t you breathe a word  _ —

“Violet?”

Professor Dumbledore’s voice sounded very far away. Violet looked at him, but it was like she was seeing through somebody else’s eyes — or perhaps her own, only not  _ through _ them but  _ behind _ them. Someone was breathing very fast and hard, and she supposed it must have been herself, only she couldn’t feel any of the air going in and out of her lungs. Nor could she feel the heart that surely must still be beating in her chest.

“Violet —”

It was a new voice speaking, not Dumbledore, and it was closer. Violet tried to find the source of it and her — were they hers? — eyes landed on the crumpled form of a man in the chair beside her. His clothes were very shabby and his eyes were very kind, and he was holding out a hand in front of him as though he meant for her to take it.

“Breathe, Violet,” he was saying. His words sounded as though they were coming to her through a pane of thick glass. “In and out . . . Deep breaths, in . . . and out . . . in . . .”

She didn’t know how the man expected her to have any control over the breathing of the body that may or may not have been hers at the moment, but she tried to focus on his words anyways. They seemed very meaningful.

“There you go,” he said, reaching toward her again. Violet wanted to shriek, to jolt backward out of his grasp, to do anything she could to get  _ away _ —

But the point where had hand connected with hers didn’t hurt the way she expected it to. It didn’t hurt at all, not even a little bit. It was warm. It was hesitant and very gentle, and the shock of it was enough to draw Violet’s senses back to her. She focused on that warmth, like she had focused on the feather, and forced herself to recall where she was, piece by piece. Hogwarts; the Headmaster’s office; she was sitting in a chair; the man beside her, the one holding her hand and making her remember how to breath, was called Professor Lupin. He was her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He was . . .

He was her godfather.

Violet shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath through her nose. She raised her head, exhaled slowly through her mouth, and then she was back. Back in her body, back in the moment, and back to the situation at hand. She opened her eyes and looked up at Professor Lupin, who was watching her so carefully and held such love in his tired eyes, the kind of love that she had never, ever seen from anyone besides Harry, and Violet began to cry.

At once, Professor Lupin left his chair and wrapped his arms around her.

Everything that had been missing from Violet’s childhood was immediately found in that hug. She’d been hugged before, of course, by Harry and her friends. But those hugs, she realized now, could never compare to this tender, paternal embrace. All the years of absent affection and purposeful neglect; the starvation; the isolation; the endless put-downs and ‘shut ups’ and cruel comments — in a single moment, Professor Lupin took all of that away and replaced it with warmth and care and kindness. Violet wanted to hug him back. Desperately, she wanted to put her arms around and him and make him stay there with her so that she would never be cold or hurt or alone ever again, but all she found herself capable of doing was sitting there and bawling her eyes out. 

“I’ve got you,” Lupin was murmuring, over and over as he rocked her. “I’ve got you now . . . I’ve got you . . .”

It was a long, long time before he let her go. It took ages for Violet to cry herself out even with all the crying she’d already done that day. She didn’t know how long they’d been like that — Lupin holding her while she sobbed and shook, unable to reciprocate — but it felt like years had passed by the time he finally released her. The feeling of warmth and safety flowed out of Violet at once. She was exhausted.

But Professor Dumbledore was still sitting calmly behind his desk — was it her imagining or were his eyes gleaming more than usual? — and Professor Snape was still standing silently behind her, and even though Violet felt like she’d just endured years of emotional labour no more than a few minutes could have actually passed.

She hiccoughed painfully and clapped a hand over her mouth.

With a silent wave of his wand, Professor Dumbledore produced a glass of water on the desk in front of her. Violet only hesitated a moment before taking it and gulping down a healthy mouthful. It was cold and fresh, and she drained half the glass in one go before setting it back on the desk. She hiccoughed again. Even worse, her stomach let out a loud, unmistakable gurgle.

The sound of chuckling made Violet look up and find Professor Dumbledore smiling softly at her.

“I believe there’s been enough emotional turmoil for one evening, hm?” he said. “We’ve been keeping dear Violet from her dinner.”

Violet ducked her head to try and hide how red her face had become, but it was too late for that. She took the handkerchief that Dumbledore had previously offered and quickly died her eyes and cheeks with it.

“Have you got another one of those, Albus?” said Professor Lupin, nodding at the handkerchief, and a moment later Professor Dumbledore handed him one as well. Violet had never seen a grown man cry like that before. It was oddly comforting to know that her tears weren’t just the product of her being a silly little girl who couldn’t get a handle on her emotions.

“You must be quite hungry as well, Remus,” Dumbledore said, looking now at Professor Lupin. “Why don’t the two of you go on ahead and enjoy the feast together. I’m sure the time spent walking will do you both some good.”

Professor Lupin stood up and offered Violet a hand, and she too got unsteadily to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but they held firm beneath her.

“Severus, would you stay a moment, please?” said Professor Dumbledore as they all headed toward the door. “I’d like a word.”

Violet had almost forgotten Professor Snape was in the room. He’d been standing so quietly and so perfectly out of her line of sight that, in the haze of her breakdown, she’d sort of looked right through him.

But she didn’t miss the way his shoulders went rigid when the Headmaster called for him to stay, nor did she fail to notice the way he wouldn’t meet her gaze, even when she was so obviously seeking it.

“Of course, Headmaster,” he said quietly, and turned back around without looking at either Violet or Professor Lupin. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as they left the grand office and headed back down the spiraling staircase.

If Professor Dumbledore expected the long walk down the Great Hall to be a good opportunity for godfather and goddaughter to talk, he was mistaken. 

There were plenty of things that Violet wanted to say to Lupin. Hundreds of questions filled her mind about his life, about her parents, about what exactly was going to happen now that everything was out in the open . . . but every time she started to open her mouth the words would die on the tip of her tongue. She was certain Professor Lupin was feeling the same way; they were on the second floor landing when she heard his breath catch in his throat as though he was about to start a conversation, but nothing came of it. The two of them walked in a silence that was neither awkward nor companionable, and didn’t say a single word until Violet came to a stop in the middle of the entrance hall. The sounds of the evening meal were echoing loudly from behind the closed doors.

“Don’t say anything to Harry,” Violet said, and Professor Lupin looked at her curiously. “I should be the one to tell him. I’m the one who worked it all out and — and spilled the truth about everything. If you trying to talk to him about it he won’t understand and he’ll try to cover it all up. But if he hears it from me . . . Please, just let me handle my brother.”

“I wasn’t aware Harry was in need of handling,” said Professor Lupin mildly.

“He is,” Violet said at once. “He’s an idiot.”

Lupin let out a startled laugh.

“Well — I suppose I won’t say a word to him, or I may have to tell him you said that.”

“Oh, he knows,” said Violet, flashing a brief, crooked smile. Lupin returned it, though she could still see the worry in his eyes. Violet turned back toward the closed doors to the Great Hall and took a deep breath. For good measure, she rubbed her face with the back of her hand. “Can you tell that I’ve been crying?”

Lupin gave her a polite once over and said, “No . . . can you tell that  _ I _ have?”

She peered up at his thin, prematurely lined face; the dark circles were still prominent under his eyes and he his hair could use a quick comb, but he hadn’t asked about any of that. Violet shook her head. Professor Lupin smiled again.

“Then . . . shall we?”

When the doors to the Great Hall opened, Violet half expected the room to go quiet. In a split-second nightmare she saw all the faces of all the students and teachers turning toward her as though they were able to tell that her whole world had been irrevocably altered — but no one was looking at all as she stepped into the hall behind Professor Lupin. Everybody was too focused on the plates of food in front of them, on the conversation with their friends, on their own little lives to be paying any attention to Violet.

But at the Slytherin table, Tracey and Cass greeted her with wide eyes and smiles.

“Where’ve you been?” Cassius asked, leaning across the table toward her. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday! Tracey said you ran off, and we’ve been hearing all sorts of nonsense from Malfoy —”

Violet shot a nervous look across the table at Tracey; they hadn’t spoken at all since the awkwardness in the garden, and Violet feared that she would find some of that firm distance still in Tracey’s eyes — but there was nothing there but warmth and worry. That ought to have been comforting, but it made Violet feel oddly sad.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly, flashing a nervous smile. “Sorry for making you worry, I was — I’m fine, Cass.”

“What did Snape want?” asked Tracey. “He came around asking where to find you, but I said I didn’t know . . . are you in trouble, Violet?”

Violet shook her head. Quite the contrary, she felt as though all her troubles had melted away. She shot a surreptitious glance toward the High Table just in time to see Professor Lupin settling into his seat, smiling mildly at Professor McGonagall. He must have felt Violet’s eyes on him because he turned his head and looked right back at her; the smile on his face broadened, and Violet couldn’t help but smile back.

“No,” she said quietly, turning back to Cassius and Tracey, who were now looking at her in confusion. “No, I’m not in trouble at all. I think things are going to be alright now, actually. Better than they’ve been in a long time. You don’t have to worry, really.”

Tracey and Cass looked at one another uncertainly, clearly unconvinced, and Violet leaned forward and said, “I’ll tell you tonight, alright? For now let’s just — let’s just eat, yeah? I’m starved.”

 

While she’d expected her friends curiosity, Violet hadn’t anticipated being literally cornered as soon as they all set foot in the Slytherin common room. Tracey and Cassius practically herded her over to their usual small table and brought their chairs around to sit close on either side of her, boxing Violet in while making sure that nobody could overhear them.

There, in hushed whispers and giddy, nervous stammers, Violet explained everything that had been said and done between the night’s feast and yesterday afternoon. She omitted certain details in her retelling — the nature of the Marauder’s Map, which Cass still didn’t know about; the specifics of the Dursley’s mistreatments of her and Harry; Professor Snape’s odd comments; Lupin’s condition — but told them all the most important bits. Professor Lupin was her godfather. He was going to be in her life from now on. Dumbledore knew what was going on at the Dursleys’ house. Violet had, for the very first time in her life, found another person she could call family.

It was very difficult for Violet to open up so completely to Cassius and Tracey. Whereas Harry had always blurted everything right out to Ron and Hermione, even if it was absolutely  _ none _ of their business, Violet had a habit of keeping her private thoughts and experiences much closer to her chest. She didn’t want to bother or upset people with her problems, especially when she was perfectly capable of dealing with them on her own — but the more she spoke now, the lighter she felt, as though as weight was being lifted from her shoulders.

It was all so new and fresh and wonderful for her, and Violet expected her friends to share that excitement. So it shocked her when Cassius, frowning deeply, said, “So that’s it, is it?”

“What’s it?” Violet asked, wide-eyed.

“He thinks he can just waltz into your life,  _ now _ , and act like everything’s fixed? How’s that fair?”

“We’ve been at school for  _ months _ ,” Tracey said, also frowning now. “You’ve been taking lessons with Lupin outside of class, he’s had plenty of time to tell you and Harry the truth. He should have said something the very first night.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Violet quickly, “he was scared, I think. I mean, it’s been years —”

“And that’s another thing!” Cassius said angrily. “You and Harry have spent twelve bloody years with those Muggles, and where’s Lupin been? You just said Dumbledore tried to make him reach out to you, and he said no — and he didn’t even come and tell you in the end! You worked it out all by yourself without him saying a word!”

“Well, I know, but —”

“And what’s his excuse for it?” said Tracey, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did he even give you one? What could have been more important than looking after you and Harry?”

“I  _ knew _ there was something off about him,” Cass snarled, and the viciousness of his tone shocked Violet. “Those shabby robes, and all the scars on him — you’ve seen his hands, how torn up they are — I’d bet anything he’s been into some sort of nasty business before coming to Hogwarts —”

“Stop it!” Violet said loudly, slamming her balled fists down onto her own legs, hard enough to bruise. Tracey and Cassius looked and her in surprise. “Just stop it, alright? You don’t know anything about it, or what he’s been through!”

“And you do?” Cass challenged. “You’ve only just met the man, Vi. What  _ is _ his excuse, then?”

“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is,” Violet snapped. This was all wrong; her friends were supposed to be  _ happy _ for her, this wasn’t meant to be a fight. Couldn’t they see how important this was?

Cassius sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring expectantly at her, and Tracey was fidgeting nervously with one of her bracelets. Violet took a deep breath and tried to regain some of her composure.

“Look,” she said after a moment, then paused. Her tone still sounded too aggressive. She tried again. “You’re not asking any questions that I haven’t already put to Professor Lupin, and he’s answered me honestly. I can’t tell you what he’s —  _ why _ he hasn’t been there until now, and I’m sorry, but it’s important. I was angry, too. I  _ am _ angry, and I still have a lot of questions I want to ask him but —”

Tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes again; Violet quickly wiped them away.

“But I don’t want you two to be angry with me  _ for _ me,” she said shakily. “He’s already said he’s sorry for being gone and promised to be here, now, and I — I’ve never had that before, y’know? First Harry and I thought our aunt and uncle were the only family we had, and then we learned about Sirius Black and somehow that was  _ worse _ , and I didn’t think we’d get anybody else who could look after us but — but now Lupin is here, and I really think that things are going to be okay, alright? I’m  _ happy _ , and I wanted you to be happy for me, too.”

Violet sniffled wetly and scrubbed at her eyes again. She really ought to have been out of tears at this point, she thought, but somehow they kept coming.

Tracey’s chair creaked slightly as she leaned forward and rested a hand on Violet’s back.

“I’m sorry, Violet . . .” she said quietly. “We didn’t mean to upset you . . .”

“Sorry,” Cass muttered, after a moment. He ran a hand through his short, wavy hair. “It’s none of our business, I s’pose, but I just . . . we’re worried for you, that’s all. We . . .” He dropped his eyes to the floor as two faint pink spots appeared on his cheeks. “I don’t want to see you get hurt anymore, y’know?”

Violet’s heart welled with affection for her friends.

She understood their anger and suspicion, really, she did — Violet herself had felt it all for herself just the day before, and some of it still roiled inside of her, waiting to be processed and dealt with. But it was their compassion she needed. It was a lot to ask when she couldn’t give them all the answers they needed to make peace with Professor Lupin; there was no way Violet could tell Cassius and Tracey his secret, no matter how hurt or angry they became. It wasn’t hers to share, even though it could explain so much.

As hard as this conversation had been, at least it was practice for things to come.

Harry had to be told as well, a prospect Violet was not looking forward to; her own anger burned white-hot and wreaked havoc on both her mental state and anything fragile that was unfortunate enough to be close to her when the rage hit. But Harry . . . Harry’s anger could sit within him like a sickness, festering and growing until it burst from every pore and tore him apart from the inside out.

Violet would  _ have _ to tell her brother that Lupin was a werewolf. Harry just wouldn’t understand otherwise. Without that context he wouldn’t be able to forgive Professor Lupin for leaving them alone for all these years, and even with the truth he might not be satisfied. Violet could only hope to catch Harry at a time when he wasn’t distracted, and would be able to listen to reason . . .


	16. The Quidditch Final

Violet dashed down early to breakfast the next morning, determined to pull Harry aside and have him to herself for a few minutes. There was so much she needed to tell him and so little time for it. She didn’t care if Ron scowled at her when she dragged Harry away. Not everything had to involve him.

Waiting outside the double doors of the Great Hall, Violet practically skipped over to the bottom of the grand staircase when she saw her brother coming down it.

“I need to talk to you,” they both said at the same time, then blinked in shock, and said, “You go first.”

“Bloody  _ hell, _ ” Ron grumbled, pushing bodily past the two of them. “It’s bad enough with Fred and George . . . I’ll save you a seat, Harry.”

Violet glared after Ron as he headed into the Great Hall; he hadn’t looked at her at all, let alone spoken, which made plain his feelings toward her had remained unchanged.

“Don’t mind him,” Harry said, grimacing apologetically at Ron’s retreating back. “You go ahead.”

“You first,” Violet said, certain that it would be some news about the nearing Quidditch match, or something to do with Harry’s encounter with Malfoy — surely Harry wouldn’t have anything to say that was as important as what  _ she _ planned to tell him.

But that confidence wavered at the sight of Harry’s expression. He dug something out of the pocket of his robes and pressed it into Violet’s hands.

“Hagrid wrote to Hermione the other night,” Harry said. “He just got back from London, y’know, with the Committee . . . He lost the hearing.”

Bile rose in the back of Violet’s throat. She looked down at the letter she’d been given and quickly read:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We lost. I’m allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts._

_Execution date to be fixed._

_Beaky has enjoyed London._

_I won’t forget all the help you gave us._

_Hagrid._

 

“They can’t do this,” said Violet. “They can’t. Buckbeak isn’t dangerous.”

“Lucius Malfoy’s behind it,” Harry said darkly, taking the letter back from Violet’s shaking hands and tucking it into his robes. “He frightened the committee into it. You’ve seen what he’s like. Hermione reckons they’re all a bunch of doddery old fools and he scared them into it — listen, there’s an appeal, and Hermione’s going to help with that as well. Ron and I have promised to help, too. Not that I expect it to do any good, but . . .”

“I’ll help, too,” Violet promised at once. “Anything for Hagrid, and Buckbeak, of course.”

Harry sighed in relief, clearly glad he hadn’t had to ask her for help.

“Thanks, Vi,” he said softly. “I know it’ll mean the world to him, no matter what happens . . . So, your turn.”

“For what?”

“To tell me something,” Harry said. “It sounded like it must be important.”

“Oh!” Violet drew up short. Yes, it  _ was _ important — but so was Hagrid. She knew her brother; he was very good at focusing very hard on one thing at a time, and very bad at focusing on several things all at once. If he had already promised his help to Hagrid, then that was going to take up much of his mental and emotional workload, and if she were to dump the bombshell she was carrying on him now, everything would go topsy-turvy.

It wasn’t fair, she decided, and so Violet shook her head and said, “It can wait. Have you been to see Hagrid yet?”

 

The safety measures imposed on the students since Black’s second break-in made it impossible for Harry, Violet, and their friends to go and visit Hagrid outside of class hours. Their only chance of talking to him was during Care of Magical Creatures lessons.

He seemed numb with shock at the verdict.

“S’all my fault. Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin’ there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and forgettin’ all them dates you girls looked up fer me. An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he told ‘em . . .”

“There’s still the appeal!” Ron said fiercely, surprising Violet. He’d been rather distant about the whole affair with Buckbeak as far as she’d known. “Don’t give up yet, we’re working on it!”

They were walking back up the castle with the rest of the class. Tracey, who Violet had spent the week quietly distancing herself from, had already gone on inside alone. Ahead, the four of them could see Malfoy, who was walking with Crabbe and Goyle, and kept looking back, laughing derisively.

“S’no good, Ron,” said Hagrid sadly as they reached the castle steps. “That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that . . .”

Hagrid turned around and hurried back toward his cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief.

“Look at him blubber!”

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had been standing just inside the castle doors, listening.

“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” said Malfoy. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher?”

Violet’s blood boiled. She and Harry both made furious moves toward Malfoy, but Hermione got there first — SMACK!

She had slapped Malfoy across the face with all the strength she could muster. Malfoy staggered. Harry, Ron, and Violet stood flabbergasted, Crabbe and Goyle staring stupidly as Hermione raised her hand again.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ call Hagrid pathetic, you foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach —!”

“Hermione!” said Ron weakley, and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back.

“Get  _ off, _ Ron!”

Hermione pulled out her wand. Malfoy stepped backward. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered.

“C’mon,” Malfoy muttered, and in a moment, all three of them had disappeared into the passageway to the dungeons.

_ “Hermione!” _ Ron said again, sounding both stunned and impressed.

“Harry, you’d better beat him in the Quidditch final!” Hermione said shrilly. “You just better had, because I can’t stand it if Slytherin wins! No offense, Violet,” she added at once, suddenly whirling to fix Violet with a very serious stare. “You’re the best of all of them, I hope you know that.”

Violet, whose mouth was already hanging open in shock, sputtered ineffectively for a moment.

“We’re due in Charms,” said Ron, still goggling at Hermione. “We’d better go.”

The three Gryffindors hurried off together, leaving Violet standing in the entrance hall stunned and alone. Realizing that she would be late for Transfiguration, she hurried up the marble staircase and into Professor McGonagall’s classroom.

“You’re nearly late,” whispered Tracey as soon as Violet slid into her seat, just in time for the classroom door to magically shut behind her. “What kept you?”

“Talking to Hagrid,” Violet whispered back, hurriedly getting supplies out of her bag. On the other side of the aisle Malfoy sat with Crabbe, shoulders hunched and robes pulled up to try and hide the bright pink splotch Violet could stills see spreading across his cheek in a perfect Hermione-shaped handprint.

Violet was very careful to keep to her own side of the desk when sitting next to Tracey. She kept her knees together and feet tucked beneath her chair for the whole lesson to avoid accidentally bumping into Tracey, and was more, for once, grateful to be left-handed; as her writing arm was on the outside, it meant that she didn’t have to worry about the two of them brushing elbows.

Tracey hadn’t said anything to encourage this behavior; quite the opposite, she seemed to go out of her way to touch Violet since the incident in the flower garden. Tracey’s fingers would brush against Violet’s any time they passed something back and forth, and she would scoot closer to her on the bench at meal times, even when there was plenty of room for her to sit farther away. Violet didn’t understand it — she was trying to be respectful and keep her distance. The last thing she wanted was for any of her actions or touches to be unwanted or misunderstood. 

Tracey had been quite clear that the affection she had for Violet was purely friendly, and that was all it would ever be. Violet, who hadn’t even known that she’d wanted something more until being rebuffed, was doing her best not to cross any of the new, unspoken boundaries between them. Or that she  _ expected _ to be between them.

But even on the journey down the Great Hall for lunch, Tracey tried to loop their arms together, chattering brightly about Professor McGonagall’s lecture and the prospect of turning random things around their dorm into rabbits that night. Violet squirmed uncomfortably out of her grasp and nodded along, feeling awkward and slightly queasy as she tried to listen to what Tracey was saying.

Violet had hoped to have another chance to speak to Harry at lunch, but to her dismay and annoyance he didn’t make an appearance at the Gryffindor table for the whole meal. 

In fact, Harry proved to be annoyingly illusive for the rest of the week, as well. He put in only the briefest of appearances at mealtimes before dashing off with Ron and Hermione, and their handful of shared lessons didn’t leave Violet with enough privacy or time to say everything that needed to be said. She regretted not spilling it all on that first day, and now that the Quidditch final was drawing ever nearer, she was afraid she’d never get the chance to speak to her brother alone.

 

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The third years had never had so much homework and Cassius, who would be facing his O.W.Ls at the end of the year, was so busy that Violet and Tracey hardly ever saw him in the common room anymore; he’d joined a study group with his fellow fifth years, he explained tiredly to them one night, and they had all been meeting in the library for hours at a time to try and prepare themselves for their exams.

Even overwhelmed with assignments as she was, Violet was rather glad for the break from their usual classes. It meant that she had more free time to spend with Professor Lupin.

Violet wanted to know everything about him, and was more than eager to share any information about herself as well. Never before had someone been so interested in her and her opinions, her likes and dislikes, what her fears were, and hopes for the future.

But despite her eager curiosity, getting information out of Lupin, Violet quickly learned, was like trying to pull teeth with your bare hands. 

“Where do you live?” she asked, flipping idly through her notes on Cheering Charms. Violet was seated at in front of Professor Lupin’s desk while he sat behind it, reviewing his course curriculum for the coming term; two half-empty bottles of Butterbeer sat between them.

“You already know that one,” Lupin said without looking up, though there was a small smile on his face. “I live here at Hogwarts.”

“You live here  _ now,” _ Violet pressed, “but what about when you’re not teaching?”

“I sleep under the desk,” said Professor Lupin mildly. “I’m afraid Albus was rather misleading when he said all Hogwarts teachers were given their own rooms.”

“Oh, come on,” Violet snorted, half laughter and half exasperation. “You really won’t tell me?”

“But I just did.”

Violet abandoned all pretense of studying and closed her book with a snap.

“Fine,” she said, scooting closer in her chair. She rested her elbows on the desk and stared at Professor Lupin. “What’s the ‘J’ stand for?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your name. On the train, your suitcase said ‘Professor R. J. Lupin.’ So what’s the ‘J’?”

“John,” said Professor Lupin. 

Violet threw her hands up in the air.

“Alright then, don’t tell me anything!” she said hotly. “I s’pose I’ll just sit here in silence and wait to be dismissed for dinner,  _ sir, _ then I’ll leave and we can go back to nodding politely at one another in the hallways —”

Lupin reached across the desk and lightly rested his hand over her own. His eyes were sparkling, and Violet realized he was laughing.

“I’m sorry if I’m being difficult,” Professor Lupin said. “I don’t mean to keep things from you, Violet, but I’m afraid I’m rather unaccustomed to being asked personal questions about my life. It’s really not very interesting . . .”

_ “I _ think it’s interesting,” Violet insisted. “Sorry, I’m not trying to pry or be awkward or anything, I just . . . I want to  _ know _ you. I feel like I should know everything about you already, but I don’t, and I just want to — to understand who you are . . .”

Professor Lupin’s smile turned melancholy. He looked away again, and withdrew his hand back to his side of the desk.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said quietly. He was silent for a long moment. “Your mother said something similar to me, once. It was many years ago when we were still in school together. Before she and James had even started seeing each other, in fact. We were paired together for some assignment or other, we might’ve just been sat next to each other, I can’t remember . . . But your mother was one of the few people I’ve ever had the joy of meeting who went out of her way in life to show kindness to everyone she met, and offer them the chance for friendship. She was more than polite to me; she could have half-heartedly asked how I was and left it at that, but instead she asked after my parents, and what I’d had for lunch, and whether or not I was looking forward to the weather changing soon — just little questions to show that she really  _ cared _ about what I had to say. I’ve often thought the world would be a much brighter place with more Lilys in it . . .”

Lupin drummed his fingertips lightly on the desk, so lightly they barely made a noise. He seemed lost in thought, or perhaps in memories of the past, of a woman that Violet didn’t and would never get the chance to know. She feared that Professor Lupin wouldn’t speak anymore.

But then he raised his eyes to hers once more and smiled, and said, “My middle name really is John, by the way.”

“Oh,” Violet said, flushing; it seemed such an ordinary name for a wizard, and she’d been so certain it was another joke — but then again, not everyone could be a Draco or a Hermione, could they? It felt rude to say so out loud, especially when she had already embarrassed herself, so instead Violet asked, “What’s mine?”

“What’s your what?” said Professor Lupin.

“My middle name,” said Violet. “Professor Vector keeps asking for one for a proper Arithmancy reading, but I told her I wasn’t sure sure I have one. Do I?”

“Your aunt never told you?” Lupin said, an odd expression coming over his face. Violet shook her head.

“I thought about writing her to ask, but . . . I don’t think Aunt Petunia would be very happy to have any more owls turning up on her doorstep . . .”

Professor Lupin was staring at her now, frowning slightly, but for once Violet didn’t feel like shrinking away the eyes on her. After a moment, Lupin blinked and cleared his throat.

“Clara,” he said quietly. “Violet Clara Potter. You were named after your grandmother, I believe. Lily’s mother.”

Violet digested this information with a funny, wobbly sort of feeling in her gut. Not only had she just learned her own middle name —  _ Clara _ — but learned as well that she was named  _ for _ someone. Her grandmother; another member of her family that she had never and would never know. But to even know  _ of _ her was a treasure that Violet hadn't even realized she'd been longing for.

“Did you know my grandparents?” she asked, sitting forward in her seat. Professor Lupin shook his head.

“Unfortunately, no. Not Lily’s parents, anyway. They attended the wedding of course, but as I said before, I wasn’t able to make the ceremony. Though I did get to meet James’s mother and father once or twice, I don't think I'm qualified to give any sort of character reference. I wish . . .”

He looked up at Violet apologetically. There was a deep, unexpected sadness in his eyes.

“I wish I could tell you more, Violet, I really do, but more than that I wish that  _ I _ didn't have to tell you anything about your family. All of this should have come from your parents, from Lily and James themselves, or at the very least your aunt —” He drummed his fingers on the desk again, more loudly this time. “Did she really never tell you and Harry  _ anything?” _

“Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never talk about anyone else in the family,” Violet said. “From  _ her _ family, I mean. We’ve met Dudley’s grandparents and Aunt Marge, but nobody ever talks about our parents except to say something nasty.”

Professor Lupin frowned deeply at that. It made the lines in his young face all the more prominent. Violet decided she didn’t care for it.

“But talking to people like you and Hagrid has helped me and Harry hear a bit more about our parents,” she added quickly. “And — well . . . Professor Snape brings up our father a lot, but he doesn’t have much nice to say about him, does he?”

Lupin sighed and reached for his bottle of butterbeer.

“Kind words have never been Severus’ strong suit, I’m afraid,” said Professor Lupin, after taking a long sip. “Nor has tact. I’ve tried to have a word with him about the way he speaks to you two, you know. Especially Harry.”

Violet flushed awkwardly. She hadn’t really noticed how differently Professor Snape treated the two of them until people started bringing it up, but it would be foolish to deny it now that it had been pointed out to her; Snape’s dislike for her brother was likely as strong for Harry’s dislike for  _ him _ .

“He keeps saying that Harry is like our dad,” Violet said. Professor Lupin shook his head.

“He’s not. Not really, and certainly not the way Severus wants to think he is. I’ll admit, Harry has quite the adventurous streak in him — as do you, Violet, don’t think I haven’t heard the sort of shenanigans you’ve gotten yourself into” — Violet’s whole face went red and she choked on her butterbeer — “but he’s a very kind, gentle boy as well. I don’t know that Harry has a single bone of meanness in his body.”

“But our dad did?” Violet said quickly. Lupin stiffened, as though realizing his misstep. He hesitated for a long moment.

“Your father was a great man,” said Professor Lupin quietly, and it was plain that he was choosing his words carefully, “with a heart of gold. He was always quick to laugh, charming and generous and loving toward his friends and family . . . but he didn’t show that side of himself to everyone. James —” He paused again. Then, “Severus and your father didn’t get along from the very moment they met, and that tension was carried between them for many years. Severus never saw the best in James because James never cared to show it to him. Just as Severus never made any attempt to endear himself to James and — er . . . Well — Keeping that in mind, Violet, I think it would be best to take Professor Snape’s words with a grain of salt.”

Violet slowly sipped her butterbeer as she processed what Professor Lupin had said. It was no secret that Snape had disliked her father intensely, though Violet had never really questioned  _ why. _ It had never really occurred to her that her father might have given Snape  _ reason _ to hate him.

“He saved Professor Snape’s life once,” she blurted, remembering suddenly. “Dumbledore told us — me and Harry — and then Snape said so as well, in his office; our dad pulled a prank that would’ve killed him, only he chickened out and saved Snape from it at the last minute. D’you know anything about that? Is it true?”

But Professor Lupin’s expression had gone all closed again, and though the sun shining through the window behind him made it difficult to tell Violet thought he might have gone a little pale.

“I think that’s enough reminiscing for today,” Lupin said mildly, downing the last of his butterbeer. Violet wanted to protest, to point out that they’d barely scraped the surface of the topic — but something in his eyes stopped her.

Finishing off what was left of her butterbeer as well, Violet packed up her books and parchment and bid Professor Lupin a friendly, if rather awkward, farewell. He clearly knew more about the prank than he was saying, but for whatever happened all those years ago to still be so upsetting to both Snape and Lupin . . . it must have been really bad.

Violet’s feet carried her back to the Slytherin common room, deep in thought. 

 

While Violet had spent the last week brainstorming ways of getting Harry away from his friends so she could speak to him in a moment of downtime, it’d never occurred to her that he might come and seek her out on her own.

She had tucked herself in the back shelves of the library, as far from Madam Pince’s desk as she could get, and had just settled down to brush up on her Herbology notes when Harry’s face appeared between the shelves.

“There you are!” said Harry quietly. He hurried over and dropped into the armchair beside Violet. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Tracey said you might be in the library — what’re you doing here by yourself?”

“Just fancied a bit of quiet time,” Violet said, a slight flush creeping up her neck; that wasn’t entirely the truth. She was still trying to keep a polite distance between herself and Tracey and the library was the best place to hide without  _ actually _ going into hiding. But explaining that to Harry would have meant explaining  _ why _ she was trying to hide. “Why’ve you been looking for me? Is something wrong?”

Harry shook his head and said, “Not really. I just wanted to know if Crookshanks was with you all at last night?”

A spike of anxiety immediately stabbed into Violet’s heart.

“Why?” she asked, voice high with panic. “Has something happened to him? Don’t tell me you think he’s eaten somebody else’s pet —”

“No! Nothing like that!” Harry said quickly. “Everything’s fine, he hasn’t done anything! Only — I think I might’ve seen him on the grounds last night, out by the forest. D’you let him wander at night?”

“Not on purpose.” Violet frowned. “He usually sleeps on my feet, but I can’t watch him all night. When did you see him?”

“I dunno, er, late? After midnight.”

“What were  _ you _ doing out on the grounds after midnight, Harry?” Violet asked, ready to give her brother a talking to, but Harry was shaking his head again.

“I  _ wasn’t _ , I just saw him through the window! He was down by the edge of the forest and — and I think I saw him with the — the —” Harry broke off, looking suddenly abashed. He glanced quickly around where they sat as though looking for prying ears, then leaned in close to Violet and whispered, “I saw him with a dog, and I think it might have been The Grim.”

Violet’s mouth fell open.

“The  _ Grim?” _ she hissed in disbelief. “Harry — I thought you didn’t believe in any of that! Hermione said —”

“I know, alright?” muttered Harry. “I don’t know what I believe, Vi, but I know what I saw. Your cat was out last night having a walkabout with a massive black dog, trotting along like they were old pals or something. Have  _ you _ seen the Grim lately?”

“Of course I haven’t, but — but I don’t spend as much time outdoors as you do,” Violet said. She gnawed uncertainly on the inside of her lip. “And you’re sure it was Crookshanks?”

“I’m sure it was a big fluffy cat with a face like it’d hit a brick wall at high speed,” Harry said, grinning nervously. Violet thwacked him lightly on the arm.

_ “I _ think he’s cute,” Violet said primly. Harry snorted.

“Yeah, alright, but you also thought flobberworms were really neat, didn’t you?”

“They  _ are _ neat, Harry!”

“They’re disgusting, Violet.”

“Sometimes disgusting things can be neat.”

“Right, yeah, suit yourself. I’ll just stick with Hedwig, thanks.”

The two of them glared at each other for a long moment, eyes locked, before collapsing into a fit of muffled giggles.

This was the sort of thing that Violet missed most about being in a different House than her brother. The bickering, the silliness, the little looks and expressions that passed between them. These moments had once been as common as breathing, but at Hogwarts they became treasured little gasps of fresh air.

“I miss you,” Violet found herself saying. She held out her hand for Harry to take. He took it, but for a moment Violet though he might say some nonsense about not being gone, or seeing each other every day. It just wasn’t the same.

But Harry said, “I miss you, too, Vi,” and she knew he understood.

They just sat there for a time, holding hands and enjoying one another’s silent company. As rare as these moments were during the school year, they both knew the summer holidays were drawing closer and closer. Soon they would be sent back to the Dursleys with only each for company — that is, if Aunt Petunia would even have them back in the house. So much had changed since they stormed out. Whatever the outcome, it was very likely that life at Privet Drive would be unrecognizable when they got back.

Although, there was a little pinprick of hope in Violet’s vision of the future.

“Harry, there’s something I need to tell you,” Violet said softly. Harry met her gaze with raised, expectant eyebrows; Violet focused on the warmth of his hand in hers and tried to put the words she wanted to say in order. “You remember what we heard in the Three Broomsticks, about Sirius Black?”

“How could I forget?” Harry said darkly. “He betrayed our parents, he went to school with them and was supposed to be their friend. He was supposed to be our godfather —”

_ “Your _ godfather,” Violet corrected. “He’s  _ your _ godfather, Harry, not mine.”

“What’re you talking about? I thought Fudge said — How d’you know —?”

“I know that Black isn’t my godfather,” Violet said very quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, “because Professor Lupin is.”

Harry’s mouth went slack.

_ “What?” _

Everything that Violet had been hiding from her brother all seemed to burst forth at once, the words tumbling from her mouth whether she wanted them to or not. She told Harry about the silver hair comb she’d been given at Christmas, and the picture of their mother with the note to Moony on the back — putting the pieces together between the note and the map — Professor Snape’s comment about getting the Marauder’s Map directly from the manufactures, and the way Lupin had looked when he said it. Violet told Harry about all that, and then about the way she had confronted Professor Lupin and the things she had told him.

This was what she had been dreading this last week; telling her brother that she had broken the silent agreement to bury the truth of life with the Dursleys. Neither of them had ever explicitly said that the things they suffered should be kept secret, but after years of covering for each other, making excuses, hiding bruises and wiping away tears before anyone else could see, an understanding had been formed: things were fine.

But now the truth was out. Violet had let it all out at the top of her lungs, and it couldn’t be taken back. She expected Harry to be angry with her. She waited for the anger, for the terrible look of betrayal to darken his face . . .

“Were they angry?” Harry asked. Violet blinked.

“Who?”

“Dumbledore, and Professor Lupin. When you told them . . . were they mad at you?”

There was an edge of nervousness to his face that Violet seldom heard. She slowly shook her head.

“No . . . Lupin was really upset, but not with  _ me _ . They mostly just seemed . . . well,  _ sad, _ I s’pose.”

“But you didn’t get in trouble for talking about it?” Harry pressed, giving her hand a squeeze. “And they  _ believed _ you?”

“They all acted like they did. And Professor Lupin,” — Violet dropped her voice to a murmur — “he said he’s not going to let things back to the way they were. He’s going to help take care of us.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Can we go and live with him?” he asked breathlessly, but his face fell when Violet shook her head. “Why not? If he’s going to be looking after us —”

“Harry, it’s really complicated,” Violet said firmly. “I can’t tell you why — don’t look at me like that, I just  _ can’t _ — but I trust him to keep his word. Everything’s going to be different now, I promise, Harry.”

Harry stared down at their joined hands, a wary expression on his face. Violet could only imagine what was going through her brother’s head; the doubts, all the questions he surely had, the answers to which she knew in her heart weren’t her place to give him. But he had to trust her. She’d promised, after all.

 

When the holidays came to an end and all the piles of homework had been turned in, the only thing left on anyone’s mind was the outcome of the Quidditch Cup.

Slytherin had won the Cup seven years in a row, and with the ferocity of their training and Marcus Flint’s penchant for encouraging dirty playing there was little wonder as to why. It was Flint’s last year at Hogwarts — unless he managed to flub all his exams again — and he was determined to push his team to victory for eight years running.

Never, in anyone’s memory, had a match approached in such a highly charged atmosphere. By the time the holidays were over, the tensions between the Gryffindors and Slytherins was at the breaking point. A number of small scuffles broke out in the corridors, culminating in a nasty incident in which a Gryffindor fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year ended up in the hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears.

Violet was having a particularly bad time of it. The Gryffindors were hostile toward her because she was a Slytherin, and most of the Slytherins regarded her with suspicion because she was Harry’s sister and known to support him over maintaining House loyalty. Shoulders bumped hers roughly in the corridors, insults and petty threats whispered in her ears and putting her down. But Violet knew she wasn’t getting the worst of it; Harry was, by far.

He was constantly surrounded by his team and Housemates, by orders of Oliver Wood, to counter any Slytherin attempts to put him out of action. Violet overhead Malfoy grumbling about it frequently, and was very glad that he hadn’t found a moment to catch her brother alone.

The day of the match, Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall to enormous applause, not only from their own House but from the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables as well. Everyone was itching to see Slytherin knocked down a peg. With so many eyes on her, Violet didn’t dare clap for her brother. She caught his eye and grinned encouragingly, but even that earned a few nasty hisses in her direction.

Violet thought she might get a chance to wish Harry luck as he left the hall for the pitch, but this was a mistake. A surge of bodies all left the Great Hall at once, cheering and jeering and chanting in equal measure and Violet found herself carried along with them, pulled away from Harry by the tide. The next time she saw her brother it was from a distance. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius were all sitting in their customary seats at the very top of the Quidditch stadium, hollering and clapping madly as the two teams met on the field. It must have been an intimidating sight.

Three quarters of the crowd was wearing scarlet rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the Gryffindor lions upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like “GO GRYFFINDOR!” and “LIONS FOR THE CUP!” Behind the Slytherin goal posts, however, two hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent of Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like everyone else, and a very grim smile.

“And here are the Gryffindors!” yelled Lee Jordan, who was acting as commentator as usual. “Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood. Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has seen in a good few years —”

Lee’s comments were drowned out by a tide of “boos” all around Violet.

“And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain Flint. He’s made some chances in the lineup and seems to be going for size rather than skill —”

More boos from the slytherin crowd. As much as Violet was inclined to agree with Jordan — Malfoy was easily the smallest person on the Slytherin team — she’d never cared for much he was allowed to get away with poking fun at the other Houses.

“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch. “Mount your brooms! Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Harry shot into the air like a cork, flying high above the rest of his teammates. Among the crowd of fellow Slytherins, Violet’s cheers were only for Harry.

“And it’s Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet of Gryffindor with the Quaffle, heading straight for the Slytherin goal posts, looking good, Alicia! Argh, no — Quaffle intercepted by Montague, Montague of Slytherin tearing up the field — WHAM! — nice Bludger work there by George Weasley, Montague drops the Quaffle, it’s caught by — Johnson, Gryffindor back in possession, come on, Angelina — nice swerve around Montague —  _ duck, Angelina, that’s a Bludger! _ — SHE SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”

Angelina Johnson punched the air as she soared around the end of the field; the sea of scarlet below was screaming its delight —

“OUCH!”

Angelina was nearly thrown from her broom as Marcus Flint went smashing into her.

“Sorry!” said Flint as the crowd below booed. “Sorry, didn’t see her!”

A moment later, Fred Weasley chucked his Beater’s club at the back of Flint’s head. Flint’s nose smashed into the handle of his broom and began to bleed.

“That will do!” shrieked Madam Hook, zooming between them. “Penalty shot to Gryffindor for an unprovoked on their Chaser! Penalty shot to Slytherin for deliberate damage to  _ their _ Chaser!”

“Come off it, Miss!” howled Fred, but Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Alicia flew forward to take the penalty.

“Come on, Alicia!” yelled Lee Jordan into the silence that had descended on the ground. “YES! SHE’S BEATEN THE KEEPER! TWENTY-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”

Violet held her breath as Flint, still bleeding freely, flew forward to take the Slytherin penalty. Wood was hovering in front of the Slytherin goal posts, his jaw clenched.

“‘Course, Wood’s a superb Keeper!” Lee told the crowd as Flint waited for Madam Hooch’s whistle. “Superb! Very difficult to pass — very difficult indeed — YES! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HE’S SAVED IT!”

The groan that went up all around them was loud enough to make Tracey clap her hands over her ears.

“Gryffindor back in possession, no, Slytherin in possession — no! — Gryffindor back in possession, and it’s Katie Bell, Katie Bell for Gryffindor with the Quaffle, she’s streaking up the field — THAT WAS DELIBERATE!”

Montague was back and had swerved in front of Katie, and instead of seizing the Quaffle had grabbed her head. Katie cartwheeled in the air, managed to stay on her broom, but dropped the Quaffle.

Madam Hooch’s whistle rand out again as she soared over to the Montague and began shouting at him. A minute later, Bell had put another penalty past the Slytherin Keeper.

“THIRTY-ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING —”

“Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way —!”

“I’m telling it like it is, Professor!”

“Look!” Tracet yelled, throwing out her arm to point down the field; Violet followed her finger in time to see Harry speeding toward them, a wide grin on his face, Malfoy haring after him.

WHOOSH.

Violet screamed as a Bludger went streaking past Harry’s right ear, hit by one the gigantic Slytherin Beaters. Then again —

WHOOSH.

The second Bludger grazed Harry’s elbow and Violet flashed back to the year before, the vision of Harry’s flopping, boneless arm swimming in her mind. Both Beaters were now closing in, zooming toward him, clubs raised —

Harry turned his broom upward at the last second, and the Beaters collided with a sickening crunch.

“Idiots,” Cassius grumbled, but he was smirking.

“Ha haaa!” yelled Lee Jordan as the Slytherin Beaters lurched away from each other, clutching their heads. “Too bad, boys! You’ll need to get up earlier than that to beat a Firebolt! And it’s Gryffindor in possession again, as Johnson takes the Quaffle — Flint alongside her — poke him in the eye, Angelina! — it was a joke Professor, it was a joke — oh no — Flint in possession, Flint flying toward the Gryffindor goal posts, come on now, Wood, save —!”

But Flint had scored; there was an eruption of cheers from the Slytherin crowd, and Lee swore so badly that Professor McGonagall tried to tug the magical megaphone away from him.

“Sorry, Professor, sorry! Won’t happen again! So, Gryffindor in the lead, thirty points to ten, Gryffindor in possession —”

It was turning into the dirtiest game Violet had ever seen. Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an early lead, Flint’s team were rapidly resorting to any means to take the Quaffle. Bole hit Johnson with his club and tried to say he thought she was a Bludger. George Weasley elbowed Bole in the face in retaliation. Madam Hooch awarded both teams penalties, and Oliver Wood pulled off another spectacular save. The score was forty-ten to Gryffindor, and Violet was beginning to appreciate how much respect Harry afforded his team Captain.

Speaking of Harry, it was hard to keep track of him amidst all the chaos; Harry was very small and fast and spent much of the game patrolling above the other players to keep an eye out for the Golden Snitch. Violet had no idea how he could possibly glimpse with with everything going on, but that was what Harry was good at. He’d only failed the catch the Snitch one time, and there had been a hundred dementors on the field to distract him then.

Bell scored. Fifty-ten. Fred and George Weasley were swooping around her, clubs raised, in case any of the Slytherins were thinking of revenge. Both Slytherin Beaters, Derrick and Bole, took advantage of the Weasley twins’ absence to aim both Bludgers at Oliver Wood; they caught him in the stomach, one after the other, and he rolled over in the air, clutching his broom, completely winded.

Madam Hooch was beside herself.

“YOU DO NOT ATTACK THE KEEPER UNLESS THE QUAFFLE IS WITHIN THE SCORING AREA!” she shrieked at Bole and Derrick. “Gryffindor penalty!”

And Johnson scored. Sixty-ten. Moments later, Fred Weasley pelted a Bludger at Montague, knocking the Quaffle out of his hands; Spinnet seized it and put it through the Slytherin goal — seventy-ten.

The Gryffindor crowd at the opposite end of the pitch was screaming itself hoarse — Gryffindor was sixty points in the lead, and if Harry caught the Snitch now, the Cup was theirs. Violet crossed her fingers and searched the skies for Harry, wishing him all the luck in the world. She spotted him circling high above the crowds, with Malfoy speeding along behind him.

And then Harry’s broom put on a huge burst of speed. He must have spotted the Snitch! His hand was stretched out, reaching for something too small for Violet to see —

“Oh, that little —!”

Malfoy had sped up at the time as Harry and thrown himself forward, hand out, reaching not the Snitch but for the twigs at the back of Harry’s broomstick. Harry whipped around and saw him, and just like that the Snitch vanished again.

“Penalty! Penalty to Gryffindor! I’ve never need such tactics!” Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to where Malfoy was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

“YOU CHEATING SCUM!” Lee Jordan was howling into the megaphone, dancing out of Professor McGonagall’s reach. “YOU FILTHY, CHEATING B—”

Professor McGonagall didn’t even bother to tell him off. She was actually shaking her finger in Malfoy’s direction, her hat had fallen off, and she too was shouting furiously.

Spinnet took Gryffindor’s penalty, but she was so angry she missed by several feet. The Gryffindor team was losing concentration and the Slytherins, delighted by Malfoy’s foul on Harry, were being spurred on to greater heights.

“Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for the goal — Montague scores —” Lee groaned. “Seventy-twenty to Gryffindor . . .”

Violet kept her eyes on Malfoy and her hand on her wand in the pocket of her robes, silently daring him to try that sort of nonsense again. Luckily, Harry seemed to be watching him just as closely. He was now marking Malfoy so closely their knees kept hitting each other. Violet whooped as Malfoy tried to turn only for Harry to dart in front and block him.

“Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor, come on, Angelina, COME ON!”

Every single Slytherin player apart from Malfoy was streaking up the pitch toward Angelina, including the Keeper — they were all going to block her —

But then there was a dark shape shooting toward them like a bullet, scattering the lot with a wild scream; Harry had cleared the way.

“SHE SCORES! SHE SCORES! Gryffindor leads by eighty points to twenty!”

Harry, who had almost pelted headlong into the stands, skidded to a halt in midair, reversed, and zoomed back into the middle of the field.

“Below!” Cass was yelling, both hands cupped around his mouth. “Look down, Potter!”

He was yelling to Harry, but Violet looked down as well and saw what Cassius was shouting about. Malfoy was diving, a look of triumph on his face — there, a few feet above the grass, was a tiny, golden glimmer —

Harry shot downward so fast for a moment Violet thought his broom must have died beneath him — but he was gaining on Malfoy — Harry was flat against the handle of his broom, dodging a Bludger that was pelted at him — he was at Malfoy’s ankles — he was level —

“Get it, Harry!” Violet screamed, jumping to her feet. “Harry,  _ go!” _

Harry, too far to have heard her, threw himself forward, took both hands off his broom. He knocked Malfoy’s arm out of the way and —

Harry pulled out his dive, his hand in the air, and the stadium exploded. Harry soared above the crowd, waving his arm, and Violet jumped wildly in place, clapping and screaming and hanging onto her friends even as the rest of their Housemates booed and groaned around them.

“He won!” Violet was screaming, grabbing hard onto Tracey and Cass’s hands and throwing them into the air along with her own. “He won, he won! Harry won!”

There was no hope of getting down onto the field; wave upon wave of crimson supporters were pouring over the barriers onto the pitch, but the Slytherin crowd remained stubbornly in place, throwing down their flags and swearing, throwing dirty looks toward an oblivious Violet.

This wasn’t her victory, but it was  _ her _ brother who had won. He’d really  _ won _ , and she was so, so proud of him.


	17. Cat, Rat, & Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

While Harry and the rest of Gryffindor House were euphoric over their win of the Quidditch Cup, a decidedly chilly pall had fallen over the Slytherin common room, most palpably when a member of their Quidditch team stepped into the room. Flint, far from being lauded for his efforts, was in contempt after running such a dirty game and earning so many penalties for the Gryffindors. Violet saw him fuming in the corner during the evenings, glaring at anyone who dared look in his direction. Malfoy had also been knocked down a peg; for all his pre-game boasting about crushing the Gryffindors and planning to knock Harry off of his broom, he too was in the dog-house for dirty playing and outright cheating.

Unfortunately, even though the weather had picked up, Violet, Cass, and Tracey had little excuse for not being in the common room’s oppressive atmosphere. As June approached, the days became cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice, perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across the surface of the lake.

But they couldn’t. Exams were nearly upon them, and instead of lazing around outside, the students were forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their brains into concentrating while dreaming of the open sky high above the thick stone walls of the dungeons. Cassius was beside himself; he was getting ready to take his O.W.Ls (Ordinary Wizarding Levels), and was determined to get the highest marks he could in every subject.

Violet and Tracey spent every moment they could studying for their own end-of-year exams together, shoulders hunched over their books, detailed notes shared between them; Violet was no longer avoiding Tracey. How could she, after realizing how much of a fool she’d been?

“I really miss you!” Tracey had sobbed, holding tightly to the sleeve of Violet’s robe while Violet stared at her in shock. “I keep trying to be close to you, to show that it doesn’t matter, but it’s like you’re running away from me, Violet — can’t we still be friends? Can’t things be like they’ve always been?”

“Of course we can still be friends!” Violet said, stunned. “I thought — I thought you wouldn’t  _ want _ things to be that way any more, after I — after what I did —”

“I’m not mad that you kissed me, Violet!” said Tracey in exasperation. Violet’s face went bright red. “Is that what all this is about? I thought you were mad at  _ me _ for not feeling the same!”

“I’m not mad either,” Violet said, “I’d never be mad about something like that, I was just worried about making you uncomfortable —”

“Are  _ you _ uncomfortable around me?” Tracey demanded. Violet quickly shook her head. “Well I’m not uncomfortable around you either, alright? The only one making it a problem is you, Vi. I just want my best friend back.”

Violet, shaken and embarrassed, had then thrown herself at Tracey and the two had spent the better part of ten minutes hugging one another, crying, and apologizing over and over. Violet felt properly stupid. It was only after many assurances from Tracey that everything really was okay between them that she was able to calm down — after that, things between them had settled back to the way they were before the incident in Hogsmeade.

“You two made up, then?” Cassius remarked at lunch, noting the way Violet and Tracey were practically hanging off of another as they sat side by side.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tracey said loftily. She laced her fingers with Violet’s beneath the table. “We were never fighting.”

Cass sighed heavily and grumbled what sounded suspiciously like “girls” under his breath, but that was that. It was a great comfort to have Tracey’s warmth and company back; Violet hadn’t even realized just how much she missed it all.

Becoming close with Tracey again couldn’t have come at a better time; Harry had received a note from Hagrid regarding Buckbeak’s appeal. It was set for the sixth, which was the last day of the exams. Someone from the Ministry would be coming to the castle — and so would an executioner.

“That’s sick,” Tracey muttered, reading the note from Harry over Violet’s shoulder. “How can they bring an executioner to an appeal? It’s like they’ve already made up their minds!”

“They probably have,” Cass said darkly.

Violet had a horrible feeling that the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures had had its mind made up for it by Mr. Malfoy. Draco, who had been noticeably subdued since Gryffindor’s triumph in the Quidditch final, seemed to regain some of his old swagger over the next few days. From sneering comments Violet overheard, Malfoy was certain Buckbeak was going to be killed, and seemed thoroughly pleased with himself for bringing it about. It was all Violet could do to stop herself imitating Hermione and hitting Malfoy in the face on those occasions. She could not, however, be held responsible for his inkpot exploding all over him in the common room one evening as he bragged to Crabbe and Goyle, nor was she to blame for the picture frame that dislodged itself from the wall as he passed, very narrowly missing his head as it crashed to the ground. Those were just accidents, of course.

 

Exam week began and an unnatural hush fell over the castle. The third years emerged from Transfiguration at lunchtime on Monday, limp and ashen-faced, comparing results and bemoaning the difficulty of the tasks they had been set, which had included turning a teapot into a tortoise.

Then, after a hasty lunch, it was straight back upstairs for the Charms exam. Professor Flitwick’s test on Cheering Charms would have been great fun if not for the number of students mucking it up. Tracey slightly overdid hers out of nerves and Violet, who was parternering her, ended up in fits of hysterical laughter and had to be left in a quiet room for an hour before she was ready to perform the charm herself. After dinner, the students hurried back to their common rooms, not to relax, but to start studying for Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, and Astronomy.

Hagrid presided over the Care of Magical Creatures exam the following morning with a very preoccupied air indeed; his heart didn’t seem to be in it at all. He had provided a large tub of fresh flobberworms for the class, and told them that to pass the test, their flobberworms had to still be alive at the end of one hour. As flobberworms flourished best if left to their own devices, it was the easiest exam any of them had ever taken, and also gave plenty of opportunity to speak to Hagrid.

“Beaky’s gettin’ a bit depressed,” Hagrid told them, bending low on the pretense of checking that Harry’s flobberworm was still alive. “Bin cooped up too long. But still . . . we’ll know day after tomorrow — one way or the other —”

They had Potions that afternoon, which was another exam that Violet breezed through without difficulty. The Confusing Concoction that Professor Snape had set for them was the very first potion he had walked Violet through at the beginning of her private lessons; she knew it backward and forward, and swelled with pride when Snape, standing watch over the rest of the struggling class with an air of vindictive pleasure, had stopped beside her long enough to give a small nod and let Violet catch of glimpse of his notes, where she had been given full marks.

Then came Astronomy at midnight, up on the tallest tower; History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in which Harry and Violet scribbled everything Florean Fortescue had ever told them about medieval witch-hunts, which wishing they could have had one of Fortescue’s choco-nut sundaes with them in the stifling classroom. Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the greenhouses under the baking-hot sun (Tracey had to save Violet from getting Stinksap all over herself); then back to the common room once more, with sunburnt necks, thinking longingly of this time the next day when it would all be over.

Violet had three exams the next day, while Tracey only had two. Thursday morning started with Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin had compiled the most unusual exam any of them had ever taken; a sort of obstacle course outside in the sun, where they had to wade across a deep paddling pool containing a gridylow, cross a series of potholes full of Red Caps, squish their way across a patch of marsh while ignoring misleading directions from a hinkeypunk, then climb into an old trunk and battle with a new boggart.

“Well done, Violet,” Lupin muttered as Violet climbed out of the trunk, shaking slightly but still grinning. “Full marks.”

Flushed with her success, Violet hung around to watch Tracey and Harry. Harry breezed through the course as well, even faster than she did, and came to stand beside Violet with a matching grin of triumph. Tracey did very well with everything except the grindylow, which grabbed hold of her ankle and managed to drag her beneath the water before she was able to break its hold. She completed the rest of the course soaking wet, and made a beeline for the common room once she was done to deal with her hair. Violet followed behind, trying to convince her that it didn’t look that bad, but her attention was diverted by the sight that that met them at the top of the steps.

Cornelius Fudge, sweating slightly in his pinstriped cloak, was standing there staring out at the grounds. He started at the sight of Violet.

“Hello there, Violet!” he said. “Just had an exam, I expect? Nearly finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said Violet. Tracey, already flustered and not on speaking terms with the Minister of Magic, hovered awkwardly in the background. Violet took hold of her hand and pulled her forward. “Er, Tracey, this is Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. Minister, this my friend, Tracey Davis.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Davis,” said Fudge politely, shaking Tracey’s damp hand. “Very good to see you friends, Violet, very good indeed . . . and your brother, Harry, is he around as well?”

“He should be nearly done with his exam, too,” Violet said. “He should be along.”

“Good, good, perhaps I’ll run into him as well. Well, best hurry along, girls, don’t hold up on my account!”

Violet, who knew when she was being dismissed, nodded politely and pulled Tracey into the entrance hall with her. Tracey elbowed her hard in the ribs.

“That was the Minister!” she hissed angrily as they headed down the stairs toward the dungeons. “How could you let me talk to the Minister of Magic while I look like this!”

“What’s he even doing here?” Violet mused. “Today is Buckbeak’s appeal, but surely he’s not here just for that . . .”

Tracey had plenty of time to make herself presentable; she had a whole hour until her last exam, Muggle Studies, but Violet had to rush off after lunch to her Ancient Runes test, which focused entirely on the Elder Futhark alphabet. Violet’s very last exam, however, was Arithmancy, and for once she was looking forward to the class. Armed with the new knowledge of her own middle name, Violet sat down and put quill to parchment with absolute confidence. She smiled as she handed it to the Professor Vector, and skipped off down to the dungeons to relax until dinner time.

 

It was a delicious meal, as always, but Violet barely enjoyed it as she sat by herself at the Slytherin table.

Cass, exhausted from a full week of rigorous O.W.Ls, staggered through the common room without so much turning his head toward Violet’s greeting and headed straight to the boy’s dormitory, where he presumably collapsed face first into bed. As for Tracey, all though the afternoon she’d suffered a terrible itch on her ankle, which turned out to be where the grindylow had sunk its pointed little teeth into her flesh during the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam. As the itch was only getting worse and a rash was starting to spread down her foot, Tracey had gone to the hospital wing to have it looked at by Madam Pomfrey.

Violet couldn’t finish the plate of food in front of her. She left the Great Hall early with the thought to find out of Tracey was alright, but her feet were carrying her in a different direction. Violet found herself outside the closed door of Professor Lupin’s office and knocked.

“Come in, Violet,” a tired voice called from within. Professor Lupin was sitting behind his desk, a mound of parchment in front of him, and he smiled warmly when Violet poked her head into the office.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess. I don’t get many visitors. What can I do for you?”

“Have you got any more of that butterbeer, sir?” Violet asked as she stepped inside.

“I have, as a matter of fact!” Lupin said, straightening up. “Only two bottles left, I’m afraid, but I suppose that’s enough for the two of us. Come on and sit down, Violet, I expect you’re more tired than I am.”

Violet flopped heavily into the chair in front of Professor Lupin’s desk and gratefully accepted the bottle of foamy amber liquid he passed to her. “Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers,” Lupin repeated. There was the sound of glass clinking together, the hiss of the bottlecaps being opened, and twin hums of satisfaction and buttery refreshment. Professor Lupin sat back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He let his head fall back with a sigh. “You know, when I was a student I used to believe that teachers enjoyed setting exams to torture us. Now, as a teacher, I’m realizing that it must have been just as torturous for them as well.”

“I think we students still have the worst of it,” Violet grinned. “ _ You _ didn’t have wade through a bog today.”

“No, but I did have to set up the bog, and the wading pool, and stop the Red Caps from bludgeoning each other to death — and that was  _ before _ my students showed up.” Lupin was smiling, but there was a definitely weariness in his voice. “And on top of it all, I have to see that all these grades are properly sorted before the end of the year. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s very rewarding work.”

Lupin took another sip of his butterbeer, eyes gleaming over the rim of the bottle.

“You really did very well today, Violet,” he said, and Violet glowed. “You and Harry are sitting right at the top of the class. I’m very, very impressed with you both.”

“Do I get extra points for being your goddaughter?” Violet asked boldly, and Lupin laughed.

“I don’t know that I’m willing to stoop to that level of blatant favouritism  _ just _ yet in my teaching career. Perhaps by the time you start your O.W.Ls I’ll have softened up a bit.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Violet. “We Slytherins have long memories, you know.”

Professor Lupin grimaced. “Yes, so I’ve heard . . .” He took another small sip. “I’ll admit, Violet, I was very surprised when I first learned you’d been sorted into Slytherin. James would’ve have quite the shock, too, if he’d known.”

Violet’s stomach did a funny sort of flip.

“Would he be angry about it?”

“Not angry, of course not,” Lupin said quickly. “But he was a Gryffindor through and through, and very proud of that fact. I expect he would hope you and Harry would follow in his footsteps.”

“So he wouldn’t like that I’m in Slytherin,” Violet said quietly. Lupin took his feet off the desk and sat forward; he reached out and took Violet’s hand.

“Violet,” he said seriously, waiting until she met and held his gaze, “you father would have loved you with all his heart, even if the only clothes you owned were grey and green and if you got a snake tattooed on your forehead. He might have fussed, he might have demanded the Sorting Hat be looked at for tampering, but he  _ loved _ you with all his heart. Please don’t ever doubt that.”

Violet stared down at where Lupin’s hand was lightly grasping hers. He was now the fourth person in her entire life to ever hold her hand; Harry, Tracey, Ginny, and now Professor Lupin. That wasn’t a lot of people — a privileged list, Violet chose to think of them as.

But there was something else that caught her attention on the desk. Tucked beneath a stack of rolled up essays, Violet caught sight of a very familiar, very old corner of parchment; the Marauder’s Map.

“Hey!” she said, pulling her hand free and tugging the map from its hiding place. “What’re doing with this out? I thought you were grading papers!”

“Ah, well —” Professor Lupin deftly plucked the map from Violet’s grasp, holding it close to his chest across the desk. “About that . . .”

Violet narrowed her eyes.  _ “That’s _ how you knew it was me at the door, isn’t it? Have you been spying on me?”

“‘Keeping an eye on’ is the phrase I would prefer, thank you,” Lupin said, wincing. “For as much trouble as I got into with that map, I realized how useful it could be in keeping you and your brother  _ out _ of trouble.”

“That’s not fair,” Violet frowned. “How are we supposed to get any privacy with you watching our every move?”

“Violet, please, it’s hardly like that. I don’t watch you at all hours of the day, that would be deplorable — I’ve peeked at your whereabouts on occasion, when I thought there was a chance for either of you to be in places you shouldn’t.”

“What does  _ that _ mean?”

“It means,” Lupin said slowly, smoothing the map out on the desk in front of him, “that the pair of you have a habit of running off and making rash decisions. Tonight, I feared one or both you might try to leave the castle to visit Hagrid. I understand his hippogriff is facing execution.”

Violet’s mouth fell open; in the rush of the exams, she’d completely forgotten about Hagrid and Buckbeak’s appeal.

“I forgot . . . I should have gone to him . . .”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of,” Professor Lupin said grimly. He peered down at the map before him, scanning the hundreds of miniscule dots moving across its surface; he sighed heavily and pointed to the corner, out on the grounds. “See here, this is what I was worried about. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are all at Hagrid’s hut right at this moment, in the garden. I suppose they’ve had the sense to use James’s cloak, at the very least.”

“You know about the Invisibility Cloak?” Violet said, surprised, though she really shouldn’t be. Lupin flashed her a small smile.

“Your father did an admirable job of trying to keep it secret, but yes, I’m afraid I did know ab— about —”

Professor Lupin went silent, staring down at the map in front of him. His face had gone completely white. Violet, alarmed, stood up.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

Lupin didn’t answer. He stared, transfixed, at the corner of the Marauder’s Map where Hagrid’s hut was drawn.

“It’s not possible . . .” he murmured faintly. “It’s . . . not possible . . .”

“What’s going on?” Violet demanded, coming around the side of the desk. Lupin stood abruptly, both hands flat on the desk as he watched the page. Violet heard the breath catch in his throat. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Professor Lupin?”

“Oh, God . . .”

Lupin was trembling, eyes wide, his face and hands white as milk. He straightened up and turned so quickly that Violet was knocked away from him, stumbling backward a few steps. She fumbled as he pressed the Marauder’s Map into her hands. Professor Lupin seized her by the shoulders.

“Go to Dumbledore,” he said, more serious than she had ever heard him before. His eyes were wide and wild. “Violet, can you do that? Go  _ straight _ to Professor Dumbledore and show him that map.”

“O-okay,” Violet said, frightened — not by Lupin, but by whatever had made him react this way. “Please, sir, what’s going —”

But at her word, Lupin had released her and dashed across his office. He yanked the door open so hard the hinges squealed, and then he was gone; the sound of his frantic footfalls pounding on the pavement disappeared into silence. Violet was left shaking and alone in Professor Lupin’s office, holding the Marauder’s Map in her hands. She looked down at it.

At first, she wasn’t sure what she was meant to be seeing. She watched the little dot that was Professor Lupin moving at a rapid pace down the grand staircase, and saw her own dot standing unmoving in his office. Looking at Hagrid’s hut, she saw no sign of her brother or his friends. Only Hagrid, and three other little dots labelled _Albus Dumbledore,_ _Cornelius Fudge,_ and _Walden Macnair_ standing inside of Hagrid’s hut. Harry couldn’t’ve gone far, she reasoned, and began to scan the expanse of the grounds for his little dot. When she finally found it, her heart stopped in her chest.

Harry and Hermione were moving quickly toward the Whomping Willow. There were three more dots near them, much closer to the murderous old tree, and only one of them,  _ Ronald Weasley, _ was familiar. It was the others, right on top of Ron, that chilled Violet to the very bone:  _ Peter Pettigrew _ and  _ Sirius Black _ .

‘Not possible,’ Lupin had said — and how could it be? Peter Pettigrew was dead. Black had killed him, twelve years ago. Black, who was moving very quickly under the image of the Whomping Willow, right into the secret passage hidden beneath its roots; Ron was moving right along with him, and Violet got the sickening impression that he was being dragged. She watched, horrified, as the three dots of Ron, Black, and Pettigrew disappeared off the map entirely. They had left the Hogwarts grounds — and Harry and Hermione were going after them.

Violet turned on her heel and rushed to the door of Lupin’s office. She stepped outside, turned to race after Professor Lupin, and collided bodily with Professor Snape.

“Mind where you’re going!” he snarled, staggering to keep his balance, and to keep hold of the goblet he was carrying. His expression turned from fury to suspicion as he looked at Violet. “Are you ill, Potter? You look as though you plan to faint.”

“Sirius Black’s on the castle grounds,” Violet told him, her words coming out in a rush. “He was on the map but he’s gone now — he’s got Ron, and Harry’s going after him — Lupin ran off, but he won’t make it —”

Snape’s eyes widened.

“What are you talking about, Potter?” he demanded. “What map?”

Violet shoved the Marauder’s Map under his nose and pointed. He looked down just in time to see Harry and Hermione’s little dots vanish as well; even sprinting out of the castle, Professor Lupin would hardly make it to them in time. Snape snatched the map from her hands and studied it for a moment, black eyes darting rapidly over the worn parchment. Then he tucked it into his robes and grabbed Violet by the arm.

“Stay here,” Professor Snape ordered, dragging her back inside Lupin’s office. “Do you hear me, Potter? You will stay in this room or I will see you out on the streets, do you understand?”

Snape’s grip on her arm was vice-like. The cold fury on his face was like nothing Violet had ever seen, and nothing she ever wanted to see again. He shook her roughly.

_ “Do you understand?” _

“Y-yes, sir,” Violet squeaked. Professor Snape let her go at once, placed the smoking goblet on Professor Lupin desk, and rushed from the office in a swirl of black robes. The door slammed shut behind him. Violet immediately rushed to it and tried the handle; it was locked. Snape had locked her in, and Harry was out there with Sirius Black, and Lupin wasn’t running fast enough and her brother was going to  _ die _ if she couldn’t get out of this room and make it to him —

Violet yanked frantically on the doorknob, twisting it back and forth looking desperately for some sort of give. She raced back to Lupin’s desk to look for a paperclip or a letter opener, anything that she could jam in the lock an try to jimmy it open the way Fred and George had taught her. She’d yanked open and ransacked three drawers before remember that she was a witch.

_ “Alohamora!” _

The door sprang open, and Violet sprinted down the hallway after Professor Snape.

She didn’t catch sight of him until she left the castle, heart hammering in her chest. Snape was running toward the Whomping Willow, wand out, and Violet tore after him. Snape came a sudden halt and Violet was forced to skid to a stop as well, ducking quickly behind a brush so he wouldn’t see her following him. But Professor Snape wasn’t looking behind him. His attention was on the ground, on something at his feet. Violet watched, panting, as he stooped and picked up what looked to be a large blanket. He shook it out and it shimmered in the moonlight, and Violet realized with a lurch what it was — Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. He must have dropped it in the chase, or else had it ripped off of him. Whatever had happened it was in Snape’s hands now, and Violet could do nothing but watch as Professor Snape threw the cloak over his shoulders and vanished beneath it.

No longer able to see him, Violet had no way of knowing how far back she should keep to avoid detection. She waited several long, breathless seconds before creeping out from behind the bush and starting off toward the Whomping Willow again. She froze when a disembodied hand appeared in the air thirty feet ahead of her.

The hand reached down and lifted a fallen branch from the ground, then jabbed it forward against the knotted roots. The great tree, which had been slowly, almost sluggishly whipping its branches through the air, fell completely still. The stick fell to the ground and the arm disappeared back into thin air. Violet held her breath, counted to ten, and headed straight toward the base of the tree. As she drew closer, a small opening became visible among the roots, just large enough for a person to climb through. This was the entrance to the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, which Fred and George said led out to somewhere in Hogsmeade.

As terrified as she was determined, Violet took a deep, shuddering breath, tightened her grip on the handle of her wand, and headed into the hole.

She had to nearly crawl to get inside, and the ceiling was so low that she was forced to bend almost double as she moved forward. This was far worse than the tunnel leading into the cellar of Honeydukes, and this time there was no Harry for her to cling to for guidance or support. It was only Violet, by herself in complete darkness; there was no sign of Professor Snape ahead of her and she couldn’t risk lighting her wand. She would have to proceed by touch along the passageway.

On and on it went; it felt as least as long as the one to Honeydukes . . . Violet pushed away the thoughts of the walls closing in around her, the low ceiling collapsing and leaving her trapped underground. She forced herself to think of Harry, and of Ron, and of what Sirius Black might be doing to them . . . She was drawing breath in sharp, painful gasps, running at a crouch . . .

And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it twisted, and a patch of dim lit shone through a small opening. Violet, gasping for breath, rushed towards it.

Pulling herself out of the hole, Violet found herself into a very disordered, very dusty room. Paper was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as though somebody had smashed it. The windows were all boarded up. She looked around carefully. The room was deserted, but a door to the right stood open, leading to a shadow hallway. Violet swallowed and took a step toward there.

There was a rustling sound to her left, and suddenly a hand closed over her mouth.

_ “Stupid girl!” _ hissed the furious, familiar voice of Professor Snape. Violet clawed at his hand, but a moment later found herself pulled against him, shrouded beneath the Invisibility Cloak that had just been yanked over her head. “The  _ one _ time you fail to obey my instructions —”

Snape’s whisper broke off abruptly. There was a creak overhead, followed by muffled voices. Someone was upstairs. Several someones, judging by the sound of it. Professor Snape’s fingers tightened over Violet’s mouth.

“Do not make a sound,” he breathed warningly. “Keep close to me.”

Violet nodded shakily, as much as she could, and Snape slowly released his hold on her face. Instead he took hold of the back of her robes and guided her, slowly and quietly, into the hall and up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where three sets of footprints and a wide, shiny stripe cut through the grime and led straight into one of the rooms. The voices were coming from inside, and Violet immediately recognized one of them as Professor Lupin’s.

“— Ministry never knew there used to be three unregistered Animagi running around Hogwarts.”

“If you’re going to tell them the story, get a move on, Remus,” snarled a new voice, terrible and low and ragged. It turned Violet’s blood to ice in her veins and froze her in place. She felt Professor Snape stiffen behind her, and heard him let out a small, sharp gasp. “I’ve waited twelve years, I’m not going to wait much longer.”

“All right . . . but you’ll need to help me, Sirius,” said Lupin, and Violet couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Sirius Black,  _ helping _ Professor Lupin? “I only know how it began . . .”

Snape’s fist pressed painfully into Violet’s back, urging her forward, and she had no choice but to push the door open and walk straight into the room. They entered into a ruined, dusty old bedroom. Violet took in the scene with wide, bewildered eyes.

Ron was half-slumped on a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings, his leg sprawled at and odd angle and his face white with pain and fear. Harry and Hermione stood beside him with their wands out, though lowered; Ron was not holding his wand. He had, clutched in both hands, inexplicably, Scabbers the rat, alive and well. Professor Lupin was standing in the middle of the room next to a figure that was barely a man — dressed in rags with long, matted, filthy hair half-covering his sunken, skeletal face. The same face that Violet had seen staring back at her from the television screen in the Dursley’s kitchen, and on the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ : Sirius Black.

And there, laying on the bed in between it all, was Crookshanks.

Black and Lupin wheeled around as Violet pushed the bedroom door open and she froze, forgetting that they couldn’t see her. Professor Snape yanked her quickly to the side, away from the door, just as Professor Lupin came toward them.

“No one is there . . .” he said, looking out into the landing.

“This place is haunted!” said Ron.

“It’s not,” said Lupin, still looking at the door. “The Shrieking Shack was never haunted . . . The screams and howls the villagers used to hear were made by me.”

He pushed his greying hair out of his eyes, thought for a moment, then said, “That’s where all of this starts — with my becoming a werewolf. None of this could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten . . . and if I hadn’t been so foolhardy . . .”

Violet stared at him with wide eyes. No one else in the room reacted to his statement, which meant his secret must have been revealed before she and Snape arrived. Lupin looked sober and tired, and Violet’s heart ached for him.

“I was a very small boy when I received the bite. My parents tried everything, but of course there is no cure. The potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent discovery. It keeps me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform . . . I am able to curl up in my office, a harmless creature, and wait for the moon to wane again.”

A pained expressed flickered over his face.

“Before the Wolfsbane Potion was discovered, however, I became a fully fledged monster once a month. It seemed impossible that I would be able to come to Hogwarts. Other parents weren’t likely to want their children exposed to me.

“But then Dumbledore became Headmaster, and he was sympathetic. He said that as long as we took certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t come to school . . .” Lupin sighed, and looked directly at Harry. “I told you, months ago, that the Whomping Willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The truth is that it was planted  _ because _ I came to Hogwarts. This house” — Lupin looked miserably around the room — “the tunnel that leads to it — they were built for my use. Once a month, I was smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth to stop anyone coming across me while I was dangerous.”

Violet didn’t understand the context of this explanation or why it was happening now, while Sirius Black was standing right there in the room, but she listened raptly all the same. The only sound apart from Lupin’s voice was Scabber’s frightened squeaking.

“My transformation in those days were — were terrible. It was very painful to turn into a werewolf. I was separated from humans to bite, so I bit and scratched myself instead. The villagers heard the noise and the screaming and thought they were hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore encouraged the rumor . . . Even now, when the house has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare approach it . . .

“But apart from my transformations, I was happier than I had ever been in my life. For the first time ever, I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black . . . Peter Pettigrew . . . and, of course, your father, Harry — James Potter.

“Now, my three friends could hardly fail to notice that I disappeared once a month. I made up all sorts of stories. I told them my mother was ill, and that I had to go home and see her . . . I was terrified they would desert me the moment they found out what I was. But of course, they, like you, Hermione, worked out the truth . . .”

Violet looked quickly at Hermione; she was staring intently at Lupin, eyes wide and expression hard. So she was the one who had revealed Professor Lupin’s secret to the others . . .

“And they didn’t desert me at all,” Lupin continued, sounding slightly breathless. “Instead, they did something for me that would make my transformations not only bearable, but the best times of my life. They became Animagi.”

Violet gasped softly, and felt Professor Snape’s grip tighten dangerously on the back of her robes.

“My dad too?” said Harry, astounded.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lupin. “It took them the best part of three years to work out how to do it. Your father and Sirius here were the cleverest students in the school, and lucky they were, because Animagus transformations can go horribly wrong — one reason the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from James and Sirius. Finally, in our fifth year, they managed it. They could each turn into a different animal at will.”

“But how did that help you?” said Hermione, voicing the question that Violet dare not.

“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they kept me company as animals,” said Lupin. “A werewolf is only a danger to people. They snuck out of the castle every month under James’s Invisibility Cloak. They transformed . . . Peter, as the smallest, could slip beneath the Willow’s attacking branches and touch the knot that freezes it. They would then slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still monstrous, but my mind seemed to become less so while I was with them.”

“Hurry up, Remus,” snarled Black, who was staring across the room at Ron with a horrible sort of hunger on his face. Violet flinched at the sound of his terrible, rasping voice and earned another warning yank from Professor Snape.

“I’m getting there, Sirius, I’m getting there . . . well, highly exciting possibilities were open to us now that we could all transform. Soon we were leaving the Shrieking Shack and roaming the school grounds and the village by night. Sirius and James transformed into such large animals, they were able to keep a werewolf in check. I doubt whether any Hogwarts students ever found out more about the Hogwarts grounds and Hogsmeade than we did . . . And that’s how we came to write the Marauder’s Map, and sign it with our nicknames. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is Wormtail. James was Prongs.”

_ And you’re Moony, _ Violet thought, pained. Lupin had already told her about the nicknames, but not the significance of them. She still didn’t understand what the  _ point _ of all this was.

“What sort of animal —?” Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

“That was still really dangerous! Running around in the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the others the slip, and bitten somebody?”

“A thought that still haunts me,” said Professor Lupin heavily. “And there were near misses, many of them. We laughed about them afterwards. We were young, thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.

“I sometimes felt guilty about betraying Dumbledore’s trust, of course . . . he had admitted me to Hogwarts when no other headmaster would have done so, and he had no idea I was breaking the rules he had set down my own and others’ safety. He never knew I had led three fellow students into becoming Animagi illegally. But I always managed to forget my guilty feelings every time we sat down to plan our next month’s adventures. And I haven’t changed . . .”

Lupin’s face had hardened, and there was self-disgust in his voice. “All this year, I have been battling with myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why? Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant admitting that I’d betrayed his trust while I was at school, admitting that I’d led others along with me . . . and Dumbledore’s trust has meant everything to me. He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a job when I have been shunned all my adult life, unable to find paid work because of what I am. And so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the school using Dark Arts he had learned from Voldemort, that being an Animagus had nothing to do with it . . . so, in a way, Severus has been right about me all along.”

Behind her, Violet felt Professor Snape’s body go rigid; he held his breath.

“Snape?” said Black harshly, taking his eyes off Ron for the first time in minutes and looking up at Lupin. “What’s Snape got to do with it?”

“He’s here, Sirius,” said Lupin heavily, and Snape’s fist trembled against Violet’s spine. “He’s teaching here as well.” He looked at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He has his reasons . . . you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick which involved me —”

Black made a derisive noise.

“It served him right,” he sneered. “Sneaking around, trying to find out what we were up to . . . hoping he could get us expelled . . .”

“It was  _ wrong _ , Sirius, and you know it,” said Lupin sharply. Black stared at him, and with effort he turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

“Severus was very interested in where I went every month,” Lupin told them. “We were in the same year, you know, and we — er — didn’t get along very well. He especially disliked James. Jealousy was part of it, I think, of James’s talent on the Quidditch field, but Merlin knows James went out of his way to make himself unlikeable to Severus . . . anyway Snape had seen me crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey one evening as she led me toward the Whomping Willow to transform. Sirius thought it would be — er — amusing, to tell Severus all he had to do was prod the knot on the tree trunk with a long stick, and he’d be able to get in after me. Well, of course, Severus tried it — if he’d gotten as far as this house, he’d have met a fully grown werewolf — but your father, who’d heard what Sirius had done, went after Severus and pulled him back, at great risk to his own life . . . Severus glimpsed me, though, at the end of the tunnel. He was forbidden by Dumbledore to tell anybody, but from that time on he knew what I was . . .”

Beneath the cloak, Violet could feel Professor Snape shaking. His hold on her robes was so tight he was nearly choking her, and she could hear his shallow, rapid breaths in her ear. Violet felt him shifting, but couldn’t turn to see what he was going.

“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” said Harry slowly, “because he thought you were in on the joke?”

“That’s right,” sneered Snape suddenly, finally letting go of Violet’s robes. He reached up and pulled the Invisibility Cloak off of them both, and raised his wand, pointing it directly at Professor Lupin.


	18. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Hermione screamed. Black leapt to his feet. Harry was staring at Violet as though he’d just had a bucket of ice water thrown over him.

“I found this at the base of Whomping Willow,” said Professor Snape, throwing the cloak aside, careful to keep his wand pointing directly at Lupin’s chest. “Very useful, Potter, I thank you . . .”

Snape was slightly breathless, but his face was full of suppressed triumph. “You’re wondering perhaps, how I knew you were here,” he said, his eyes glittering. His fingers closed tightly around Violet’s upper arm. “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You forgot take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful along. And very lucky I did . . . lucky for me, I mean. Who should I should run into but Miss Potter, here, blabbering about you running off after Sirius Black after spotting him on a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight.”

“Severus —” Lupin began, but Professor Snape overrode him.

“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here’s the proof. Not even I dreamed you would have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout —”

“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” said Lupin urgently. “You haven’t heard everything — I can explain — Sirius is not here to kill Harry —”

“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” said Snape, a frantic edge to his voice. Violet squirmed in his vice-like grip, his thin fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “I shall be interested to see how Dumbledore takes this . . . He was quite convinced you were harmless you know, Lupin  . . . a  _ tame _ werewolf —”

“You fool,” said Lupin softly. “Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?”

BANG! Thin, snakeline cords burst from the end of Snape’s and and twisted themselves around Lupin’s mouth, wrists, and ankles; he overbalanced and fell to the floor, unable to move. Violet screamed and, with a roar of rage, Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his wand straight between Black’s eyes. He held Violet between them like a shield.

“Give me a reason,” Snape whispered. “Give me a reason to do it, and I swear I will.”

Black stopped dead. Violet, hurting and furious, twisted in Snape’s grasp and elbowed him in the stomach as hard as she could.

_ “Oof!” _ he huffed, doubling over, scrabbling to keep a hold of her, but not quickly enough. Violet grabbed hold of Snape’s wand and yanked it out of his hand. She danced out of his reach as he gasped for air and gripped his wand in both hands.

“Stay back!” she shouted, backing toward where Harry was standing. “Stay back, or I’ll snap it!”

The whole room froze. Professor Lupin lay bound and helpless on the floor at Violet’s feet; Sirius Black was staring at her with shocked, sunken eyes; Professor Snape, regaining his composure and clutching his stomach, was looking at Violet with barely contained rage in his black eyes.

“You foolish girl,” he gasped, straightening slowly, “you’re meddling in what you don’t understand —”

“You’re right, I  _ don’t _ understand!” Violet said loudly. She fumbled to pull her own wand out of her pocket, quickly aiming it at Black. “I don’t understand anything that’s going on here, and if somebody doesn’t start explaining soon I’ll — I’ll —”

Flustered and panicked, Violet lowered her wand to Lupin and said,  _ “Finite incantatem!” _ The ropes around him burst apart and crumbled into ash. Professor Lupin climbed quickly to his feet, rubbing his wrists from where the bindings had cut into them.

“Thank you, Violet,” he said. He reached for her and Violet aimed her wand straight at his chest. Lupin’s hands raised warily.

“Harry,” Violet said, not taking her eyes off the three grown men in front of her, “are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said at once, appearing beside her. “I’m okay, Vi, but Ron’s leg is broken. Black dragged him in here.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Harry,” Violet said shakily. Lupin was staring impassively back at her, but both Black and Snape’s faces were twisted with emotion. “I heard everything about the Animagi and running around as animals. What happened before that? What is  _ he” _ — she swivelled her wand to Sirius Black —  _ “doing here?” _

“This isn’t what it looks like, Violet,” Lupin said quickly. “Sirius is not here to —”

“I didn’t ask you!” Violet cried, turning her wand back on him. She was terribly outnumbered; any of them could charge her, knock her off her feet, take her wand and — “Harry,” she repeated, “tell me what’s going on!”

“Black thinks Scabbers is Peter Pettigrew,” Harry said at once, “he’s been trying to get at him since we got here. Lupin said they — they switched, something, I don’t know — Black wants to kill Scabbers, but Lupin said he had to explain why first — that we had a right to know — Violet, it’s madness! Pettigrew is dead,  _ he _ killed him!”

Violet glanced over her shoulder at Ron on the bed, holding onto a frantic Scabbers with both hands. The rat was skinnier than ever, missing patches of fur down his little body, his tail writhing desperately as he fought to escape. A lightbulb went off in Violet’s head.

“Wormtail,” she said softly, sliding her eyes back to Professor Lupin. “That’s why he was called Wormtail, because he’s a —”

“A  _ rat,” _ rasped Sirius Black, his eyes fixed once again on Ron; not  _ on _ Ron, but at the squirming creature in his hands. “A filthy little rat . . .”

Harry put a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “Violet, he’s mad — Pettigrew’s dead, there were witnesses —”

“I saw him on the map,” Violet said. “I watched Black pull Ron under the Whomping Willow, after Lupin ran off. Pettigrew was with him. Pettigrew was  _ right _ there with him, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth was hanging open. Violet took a step forward and pressed Snape’s wand into the hand of a stunned Professor Lupin and said, “Prove it.”

“Finally,” growled Sirius Black, taking a step forward. “ _ Finally _ , it’s about time —”

“Have you lost your senses, girl?” snarled Professor Snape, stepping forward as well, only for Lupin to turn his own wand against him. Snape’s black eyes were full of hatred such as Violet had never seen. “You would believe the lies of a werewolf over listening to sense?”

“I trust him,” Violet said, turning her wand on Professor Snape as well. “I’m sorry for hitting you, sir, I really am, but my parents are dead because of someone in this room, and I want to know  _ why.” _

“So do I,” said Black, advancing on Ron with outstretched hands. “You, boy — give me Peter. Now.”

Ron clutched Scabbers closer to his chest.

“Come off it,” he said weakly. “Are you saying he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on  _ Scabbers? _ I mean . . .” He looked up at Harry and Hermione for support, “Okay, so Pettigrew could turn into a rat — there are millions of rat — how’s he supposed to know which one’s which after he was locked up in Azkaban?”

“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” said Lupin, looking at Black and frowning slightly. “How  _ did _ you find out where he was?”

Black put one of his clawlike hands inside his robes and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed flat and held out to show the others.

It was the photograph of Ron and his family that had appeared in the  _ Daily Prophet _ the previous summer, and there, on Ron’s shoulder, was Scabbers.

“How did you get this?” Lupin asked Black, thunderstruck.

“Fudge,” said Black. “When he came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page . . . on this boy’s shoulder . . . I knew him at once . .  how many times had I seen him transform? And the caption said the boy would be going back to Hogwarts . . . to where Harry was . . .”

“My God,” said Lupin softly, staring from Scabbers to the picture in the paper and back again. “His front paw . . .”

“What about it?” said Ron defiantly.

“He’s got a toe missing,” said Black.

“So the rat is missing a toe,” snapped Snape, fists clenched furiously at his sides. “Is that proof enough for you, Potter? Perhaps we should inspect the creatures ears as well, before ending this farce —”

“Be quiet, Severus, please, for once in your life,” said Lupin tiredly. He stared back at Scabbers. “So simple . . . so  _ brilliant _ . . . he cut it off himself?”

“Just before he transformed,” said Black. “When I cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killed everything within twenty feet of himself — and sped down into the sewer with the other rats . . .”

“A finger . . .” Violet said numbly, looking up at Lupin. “All they ever found of Pettigrew was his finger.”

“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat or something!” said Ron desperately. “He’s been in my family for ages, right —”

“Twelve years in fact,” said Lupin. “Didn’t you ever wonder why he was living so long?”

“We — we’ve been taking good care of him!” said Ron.

“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?” said Professor Lupin. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever since he heard Sirius was on the loose again . . .”

“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” said Ron, nodding toward Crookshanks, who was still purring on the bed.

But that wasn’t right, Violet thought suddenly . . . Crookshanks had been after Scabbers for years, and yet Scabbers had always remained just as fat and sleepy as always. It wasn’t until Ron’s return from Egypt . . . since the time when Black had escaped . . .

“This cat isn’t mad,” said Black hoarsely. He reached out a bony hand and stroked Crookshanks fluffy head. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever met. He recognized Peter for what he was, right away. And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. It was a while before he trusted me . . . Finally, I managed to communicate to him to him what I was after, and he’s been helping me . . .”

“What do you mean?” breathed Violet, staring wide-eyed at Crookshanks. “Crooks, what —?”

Crookshanks blinked his orange eyes at Violet and lowered his head looking, as much as a cat could, apologetic.

“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t,” Black said. “So he stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower for me . . . As I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside table . . .”

Violet gaped at Crookshanks, feeling a mix of awe and pride. It was absurd . . . and yet . . .

“But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for it . . .” croaked Black. “This cat — Crookshanks, did you call him? — told me Peter had left blood on the sheets . . . I supposed he bit himself . . . Well, faking his own death had worked once . . .”

The words seemed to jolt Harry back to the present.

“And why did he fake his death?” he said furiously. “Because he knew you were about to kill him like you killed our parents?”

“No,” said Lupin, “Harry —”

“And now you’ve come to finish him off!”

“Yes, I have,” said Black, with an evil look at Scabbers.

“Then you should have let Snape take him!” Harry shouted, rounding on Violet.

“Harry,” said Lupin hurriedly, “don’t you see? All this time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and Peter tracked him down — but it was the other way around, don’t you see?  _ Peter _ betrayed your mother and father — Sirius tracked  _ Peter _ down —”

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry yelled. “HE WAS THEIR SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU TURNED UP. HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!”

He was pointing to Black, and Violet’s eyes went wide. Had she been wrong? Had she misplaced her trust after all? But Black was shaking his head; the sunken eyes were suddenly overbright.

“Harry . . . I as good as killed them,” Black croaked. “I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-Keeper instead of me . . . I’m to blame, I know it . . . The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw their house destroyed, and their bodies . . . I realized what Peter must’ve done . . . what I’d done . . .”

His voice broke. He turned away.

_ “Lies,” _ hissed Professor Snape. His eyes were slits of pure hatred as they stared at Black. “You’d tell any lie in the world to save your own skin, Black —”

“Enough of this,” said Lupin, and there was a steely note in his voice Violet had never heard before. “There’s one certain way to prove what really happened. Ron,  _ give me that rat.” _

“What’re you doing to do with him if I give him to you?” Ron asked Lupin tensely.

“Force him to show himself,” said Lupin. “If he really is a rat, it won’t hurt him.”

Ron hesisted. Then at long last, he held out Scabbers and Lupin took him. Scabbers began to squeak without stopping, twisting and turning, his tiny black eyes bulging in his head.

“Ready, Sirius?” said Lupin.

Professor Lupin took his own wand out of his pocket and passed Snape’s wand over to Black. Snape snarled wordlessly at the exchange, but remained in place, watching. Black approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his face.

“Together?” he said quietly.

“I think so,” said Lupin, holding Scabbers tightly in one hand and his wand in the other. “On the count of three. One — two — THREE!”

A flash of blue-white light erupted from both wands; for a moment, Scabbers was frozen in midair, his small grey form twisting madly — Ron yelled — the rat hit the floor. There was another blinding flash of light and then —

It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground; limbs were sprouting; a moment later, a man was standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and wringing his hands. Crookshanks was spitting and snarling on the bed; the hair on his back was standing up.

He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry and Violet. His thin, colorless hair was unkempt and there was a large bald spot on top. He had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who had lost a lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby, almost like Scabbers’ fur, and something of the rat lingered around his pointed noise and his very small, watery eyes. He looked around at them all, his breathing fast and shallow. Violet saw his eyes dart to the door and back again.

“Well, hello, Peter,” said Lupin pleasantly, as though rats frequently erupted into old school friends around him. “Long time, no see.”

“S — Sirius . . . R — Remus . . .” Even Pettigrew’s voice was squeaky. Again, his eyes darted toward the door. “My friends . . . my old friends . . .”

Black’s wand arm rose, but Lupin seized his wrist, gave him a warning look, then turned again to Pettigrew, his voice light and casual.

“We’ve been having a little chat, Peter, about what happened the night Lily and James died. You might have missed the finer points while you were squeaking around down there on the bed —”

“Remus,” gasped Pettigrew, and Violet could see beads of sweat breaking out over his pasty face, “you don’t believe him, do you . . ? He tried to kill me, Remus . . .”

“So we’ve heard,” said Lupin, more coldly. “I’d like to clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if you’d be so —”

“He’s come to try and kill me again!” Pettigrew squeaked suddenly, pointing at Black, and Violet saw that he used his middle finger, because his index was missing. “He killed Lily and James and now he’s going to kill me too . . . You’ve got to help me, Remus . . .”

Black’s face looked more skull-like than ever as he stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes.

“No one’s going to try and kill you until we’ve sorted a few things out,” said Lupin.

“Sorted things out?” squealed Pettigrew, looking wildly about him once more, eyes taking in the boarded windows and, again, the only door. “I knew he’d come after me! I knew he’d be back for me! I’ve been waiting for this for twelve years!”

“You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?” said Lupin, his brow furrowed. “When nobody has ever done it before?”

“He’s got dark powers the rest of us can only dream of!” Pettigrew shouted shrilly. “How else did he get out of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named taught him a few tricks! Snape — Snape would know all about it —”

Pettigrew’s watery eyes fell to Professor Snape, frozen against the wall, and so did Violet’s. Snape’s face was ashen. His mouth was closed as he stared at Pettigrew, but his eyes were wide enough to see all the whites of them.

“You . . .” she heard Snape breath, just barely through his thin lips. Then, his face contorted. “It was  _ you . . .” _

“I expect Snape  _ would _ know all about it,” Black barked, not taking his eyes off of Pettigrew. “I’d love to see what sorts of tricks Voldemort taught  _ him _ —”

Pettigrew flinched as thought Black had brandished a whip at him; Black began to laugh.

“What, scared to hear your old master’s name?” he said. “I don’t blame you, Peter. His lot aren’t very happy with you, are they?”

“Don’t know what you mean, Sirius —” muttered Pettigrew, his breathing faster than ever. His whole face was shining with sweat.

“You haven’t been hiding from  _ me _ for twelve years,” said Black. “You’ve been hiding from Voldemort’s old supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter . . . They all think you’re dead, or you’d have to answer to them . . . I’ve heard them screaming all sorts of things in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the Potters’ on your information . . . and Voldemort met his downfall there. And not all Voldemort’s supporters ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are plenty out here, biding their time, pretending they’ve seen the error of their ways . . . If they ever got wind that you were still alive, Peter —”

“Don’t know . . . what you’re talking about . . .” said Pettigrew again, more shrilly than ever. He wiped his face on his sleeve; his wet eyes flicked first to Snape and then to Lupin. “You don’t believe this — this madness, Remus —”

“I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty in understanding why an innocent man would want to spend twelve years as a rat,” said Lupin evenly.

“Innocent, but scared!” squealed Pettigrew. “If the Dark Lord’s supporters were after me, it was because I put one of their best men in Azkaban — the spy, Sirius Black!”

Black’s face contorted.

“How dare you,” he growled. “I, a spy for Voldemort? For your  _ Dark Lord? _ When did I ever sneak around people who were stronger and more powerful than myself? But you, Peter — I’ll never understand why I didn’t see you were the spy from the start. You always liked big friends who’d look after you, didn’t you? It used to be us . . . me and Remus . . . and James . . .”

Pettigrew wiped his face again; he was almost panting for breath.

“Me, a spy . . . must be out of your mind . . . never . . . don’t know how you can say such a —”

“Lily and James made you Secret-Keeper because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was the perfect plan . . . a bluff . . . Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use a weak, talentless thing like you . . . It must have been the finest moment of your miserable life, telling Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”

Pettigrew was muttering distractedly; Violet caught words like “far-fetched” and “lunacy,” but she couldn’t help paying more attention to the ashen colour of Pettigrew’s face and the way his eyes continued to dart toward the windows and door.

“Professor Lupin?” said Hermione timidly. “Can — can I say something?”

“Certainly, Hermione,” said Lupin courteously.

“Well — Scabbers — I mean, this — this man — he’s been sleeping in Harry’s dormitory for three years. If he’s working for You-Know-Who, how come he never tried to hurt Harry before now?”

“There!” said Pettigrew shrilly, pointing at Ron with his maimed hand. “Thank you! You see, Remus? I have never hurt a hair on Harry’s head! Why should I?”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Black. “Because you never did anything for anyone unless you could see what was in it for you. Voldemort’s been in hiding for thirteen years, they say he’s half dead. You weren’t about to commit murder right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose, for a wreck of a wizard who’d lost all of his power, were you? You’d want to be quite sure he was the biggest bully on the playground before you went back to him, wouldn’t you? Why else did you find a wizard family to take you in? Keeping an ear out for news, weren’t you, Peter? Just in case your own protector regained strength, and it was safe to rejoin him . . .”

Pettigrew opened his mouth and closed it several times. He seemed to have lost the ability to talk.

“Er — Mr. Black — Sirius?” said Hermione?

Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything quite like her.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how — how did you get out of Azkaban, if you didn’t use Dark Magic?”

“Thank you!” gasped Pettigrew, nodding frantically at her. “Exactly! Precisely what I —”

But Lupin silenced him with a look. Black was frowning slightly at Hermione, but not as though he were annoyed with her. He seemed to be pondering his answer.

“I don’t know how I did it,” he said slowly. “I think the only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was innocent. That wasn’t a happy thought, so the dementors couldn’t suck it out of me . . . but it kept me sane and knowing who I am . . .  helped me keep my powers . . . so when it all became . . . too much . . I could transform in my cell . . . become a dog. Dementors can’t see, you know . . .” He swallowed. “They feel their way toward people by feeding off their emotions . . . They could tell that my feelings were less — less human, less complex when I was a dog . . . but they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind like everyone else in there, so it didn’t trouble them. But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of driving them away from me without a wand . . .

“But then I saw Peter in that picture . . . I realized he was at Hogwarts with Harry, and Violet . . . perfectly positioned to act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side was gathering strength again . . .”

Pettigrew was shaking his head, mouthing noiselessly, but staring all the while at Black as though hypnotized.

“. . . ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of allies . . . and to deliver the Potters to them. If he gave them Harry, who’d dare say he’d betrayed Lord Voldemort? He’d be welcomed back with honours . . .

“So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one who knew Peter was still alive . . .”

Violet remembered what Mr. Weasley had told Mrs. Weasley. “The guards say he’s been talking in his sleep . . . always the same words . . .  _ ‘He’s at Hogwarts.’” _

“It was as if something had lit a fire in my head, and the dementors couldn’t destroy it . . . It wasn’t a happy feeling . . . it was an obsession . . . but it gave me strength, it cleared my mind . . . So, one night when they opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as a dog . . . It’s so much harder for them to sense animal emotions that they were confused . . . I was thin, very thin . . . thin enough to slip through the bars . . . I swam as a dog back to the mainland . . . I journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest ever since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry . . .”

He looked at Harry and Violet, who did not look away.

“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, children. I never betrayed James and lily. I would have died before I betrayed them.”

At long last, Violet believed him. She looked at Harry, who looked right back at her, and saw the same conclusion had been reached in his eyes. Violet looked back to Black, throat too tight to speak, and nodded.

“No!”

Pettigrew had fallen to his knees as though the twins’ nod had been his own death sentence. He shuffled forward on his knees, groveling, his hands clasped in front of him as though praying.

“Sirius — it’s me . . . it’s Peter . . . your friend . . . you wouldn’t . . .”

Black kicked out and Pettigrew recoiled.

“There’s enough filth on my robes without you touching them,” said Black.

“Remus!” Pettigrew squealed, turning to Lupin instead, writhing imploringly in front of him. “You don’t believe this . . . wouldn’t Sirius have told you they’d changed the plan?”

“Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter,” said Lupin. “I assume that’s why you didn’t tell me, Sirius?” he said casually over Pettigrew’s head.

“Forgive me, Remus,” said Black.

“Not at all, Padfoot, old friend,” said Lupin, who was now rolling up his sleeves. “And will you, in turn, forgive me for believing  _ you _ were the spy?”

“Of course,” said Black, and the ghost of a grin flitted across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his sleeves. “Shall we kill him together?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Lupin grimly.

“You wouldn’t . . . you won’t . . .” gasped Pettigrew. And he scrambled around to Ron.

“Ron . . . haven’t I been a good friend . . . a good pet? You won’t let them kill me, Ron, will you . . . you’re on my side, aren’t you?”

But Ron was staring at Pettigrew with the utmost revulsion.

“I let you sleep in my  _ bed!” _ he said.

“Kind boy . . . kind master . . .” Pettigrew crawled toward Ron, “you won’t let them do it . . . I was your rat . . . I was a good pet . . .”

“If you made a better rat than a human, it’s not much to boast about, Peter,” said Black harshly. Ron, going still paler with pain, wrenched his broken leg out of Pettigrew’s reach. Pettigrew turned on his knees, staggered forward, and seized the hem of Hermione’s robes.

“Sweet girl . . . clever girl . . . you — you won’t let them . . . Help me . . .”

Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew’s clutching hands and backed away against the wall, looking horrified.

“Severus!” cried Pettigrew, turning wildly toward Snape. He crawled toward him on his knees, eyes pleading. “Severus, please . . . I can still — still be of use . . . you were always clever, so trusted . . . he knew you were —”

“Get any closer,” Snape breathed, shrinking against the wall, “and I’ll kill you with my bare hands . . .”

Pettigrew recoiled. He nealt, trembling uncontrollably, and turned his head slowly toward the twins.

“Harry . . . Violet . . . you look so much like . . . like James, and Lily . . .”

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO THEM!” roared Black. “HOW DARE YOU FACE THEM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF THEM?”

“Harry,” whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward them, hands outstretched. “Harry, James wouldn’t have wanted me killed . . . James would have understood, Violet . . . he would have shown me mercy . . .”

Both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized Pettigrew’s shoulders, and threw him backward onto the floor. He sat there, twitching with terror, staring up at them.

“You sold James and Lily to Voldemort,” said Black, who was shaking too. “Do you deny it?”

Pettigrew burst into tears. It was horrible to watch, like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.

“Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord . . . you have no idea . . . he has weapons you can’t imagine . . . I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen . . . He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me —”

“DON’T LIE!” bellowed Black. “YOU’D BEEN PASSING INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY AND JAMES DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!”

“He — he was taking over everywhere!” gasped Pettigrew. “Wh — what was there to be gained by refusing him?”

“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?” said Black, with a terrible fury in his face. “Only innocent lives, Peter!”

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!”

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black. “DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”

Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, wands raised.

“You should have realized,” said Lupin quietly, “if Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Goodbye, Peter.”

Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned toward the wall.

“NO!” Harry yelled. He ran forward, placing himself in front of Pettigrew, facing the wands. “You can’t kill him,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t.”

Black and Lupin looked staggered.

“Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents,” Black snarled. “This cringing bit of filth would have seen you and your sister die, too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him that your whole family.”

“I know,” Harry panted. “We’ll take him up to the castle. We’ll hand him over to the dementors . . . He can go to Azkaban . . . but don’t kill him.”

“No,” said Violet, finally finding her voice. Everyone looked at her. She stared at Pettigrew’s wet, hopeful eyes. “I want him dead.”

“Violet,” Harry said, turning toward her imploringly. “This isn’t about him. I don’t — I don’t reckon our dad would’ve wanted them to become killers —”

“Then they won’t have to,” Violet said, the ringing in her ears louder and clearer than it had ever been before. She pushed up the sleeves of her own robes and pointed her wand at Pettigrew. “I’ll do it myself.”

A stunned silence filled the room. It was broken by Pettigrew’s high, trembling wail.

“Violet,  _ please _ . . .” he begged, hands reaching desperately for her. “Please, lovely girl . . . I never meant . . . Oh, God . . .”

“I’ve never known my mother because of you,” Violet said, looking down her nose dispassionately at Pettigrew. “I’ve never even heard my father’s voice, because of  _ you.” _

“Violet, wait —” Lupin said, starting toward her, but he choked suddenly, as though his voice had vanished. He clapped a hand helplessly to his throat. Violet pointed her wand right between Pettigrew’s eyes, hating the way her hands were shaking, hating him, hating the long seconds that ticked past.

“They wouldn’t want this, Vi,” she heard Harry say, from very far away. “Mum and Dad . . . they wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Pity they couldn’t be the ones to tell me that,” Violet muttered bitterly. Pettigrew let out a sob. She swallowed hard.

“Potter.” Professor Snape’s voice cut through the ringing, but just barely. Violet raised her eyes to meet his, fixed on her face. She couldn’t name his expression if she tried. “Do you even know the spell?”

Violet opened her mouth to retort, to snap back that  _ of course _ she knew the spell — but she didn’t. And of all the things that had happened that night, all the truths and lies and terrible things that had come out, this was the thing that broke her. Violet heard another sob, then realized that it had come from her own mouth. She lowered her wand as though it suddenly weighed a tonne, and seconds later Harry had taken it from her.

“He’ll go to Azkaban,” Harry repeated, taking hold of Violet’s numb hand. “If anyone deserves that place, he does . . .”

Pettigrew was still wheezing on the floor behind him.

“Very well,” said Lupin. “Stand aside, you two.”

Harry hesisted.

“I’m going to tie him up,” said Lupin. “That’s all, I swear.”

Harry stepped to the side, gently pulling Violet along with him. Thin cords shot from Lupin’s wand this time, and next moment, Pettigrew was still wriggling on the floor, bound and gagged.

“But if you transform, Peter,” growled Black, pointing Snape’s wand at Pettigrew too, “we  _ will _ kill you. You agree, children?”

Violet looked down at the pitiful figure on the floor and nodded so that Pettigrew could see her.

“Right,” said Lupin, suddenly businesslike. “Ron, I can’t mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey, so I think it’s best if you just strap your leg up until we can get you to the hospital wind.”

He hurried over to Ron, bent down, tapped Ron’s leg with his wand, and muttered,  _ “Ferula.” _ Bandages spun around Ron’s leg, strapping it tightly to a splint. Lupin helped him to his feet; Ron put his weight gingerly on the leg and didn’t wince.

“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”

“My wand,” said Professor Snape suddenly, hand outstretched toward Black. “Give it here.”

Black held Snape’s wand carefully out of reach.

“I think bloody well not,” he growled. “Why would I give it back, so you can hex me the moment my back is turned?”

“I don’t need a wand to hurt you, Black,” Snape ground out, and Lupin darted quickly between the two of them.

“Severus, please — you’ve just seen the truth, Sirius is innocent —”

“Innocence is relative,” Snape snapped, trying to step around Lupin only to be blocked again. Black let out a harsh bark of laughter.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Snivellus?” he said coldly. “How can you challenge Dumbledore’s judgement, letting a werewolf teach, when he’s already got a  _ real _ monster on his staff —”

“Sirius, that’s enough,” Lupin said sharply. He turned and snatched Snape’s wand out of Black’s grasp. “I’ll hold on to this for now, alright? I don’t think either of you ought to —”

“What gives you the right —” Snape started, shoving Lupin roughly, but then Black reached around Lupin to grab for Snape, trying to hit any part of him that he could reach while Lupin struggled vainly to keep them separated.

“Stop it!” shouted Hermione suddenly, stepping forward. All three men turned to look at her. “Can’t you see we’ve got bigger problems right now?”

Lupin, Snape, and Black all looked back at Pettigrew, still bound on the floor, though he had been wriggling in the direction of the door. Slowly, the three of them stepped away from each other.

“That’s a very good point, Hermione,” said Lupin calmly. He tucked Professor Snape’s wand into his robes, and bent to pick up the Invisibility Cloak.

“Two of us should be chained to this,” said Black, nudging Pettigrew with his toe.

“I’ll do it,” said Lupin.

“And me,” said Violet and Ron at the same time. They looked at each other for a long, tense moment, and Ron lowered his eyes in acceptance.

“Yeah, you go ahead,” he muttered. “S’pose it should be you . . .”

Lupin conjured heavy manacles from thin air; soon, Pettigrew was upright again, left arm chained to Lupin’s right, right arm to Violet’s left. Grudgingly, Harry returned her wand to her hand. Violet shuddered to be so close to Pettigrew, to hear his soft snuffled from behind the tight rope gag, but she wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do this.

“Crooks,” she called, looking back into the room, “are you coming?”

Crookshanks leapt lightly off the bed and led the way out of the room, his bottlebrush tail held jauntily high.

 

Violet had never been part of a stranger group. Crookshanks led the way down the stairs; Professor Lupin, Pettigrew, and Violet herself went next, looking like entrants in a six-legged race. Next came Sirius Black, the man who — up until an ago — Violet had blamed for the death of her parents and believed to be after her brother’s life as well, trudging along quietly. Harry and Hermione followed behind him, Ron supported between them, and then, sullenly bringing up the rear, was Professor Snape.

Getting back into the tunnel was difficult. Violet, Lupin, and Pettigrew had to turn sideways to manage it; both Violet and Professor Lupin had Pettigrew covered with their wands. Crookshanks was still in the lead. Sirius followed right behind Violet, with Harry right behind him.

“You know what this means?” Black said abruptly as they made their slow progress along the tunnel. “Turning Pettigrew in?”

“You’re free,” said Harry.

“Yes . . .” said Black. “But I’m also — I don’t know if anyone ever told you, Harry — I’m your godfather.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” said Harry.

“Well . . . your parents appointed me your guardian,” said Black stiffly. “Both of you actually, since Moony — Well. If anything happened to them . . .”

Violet’s head whipped around to look at Black, and she locked eyes with Harry. Did Black mean what they thought he meant?

“I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle,” said Black. “But . . . well . . . think about it. Once my name’s cleared . . . if you wanted a . . . a different home . . .”

”What — live with you?” Harry said, accidentally cracking his head on the bit of rock Violet had just narrowly avoided. “Leave the Dursleys?”

“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” said Black quickly, looking back and forth between them. “I understand, I just thought I’d —”

“Are you insane?” Violet said, her voice easily as croaky as Black’s. “Of course we want to leave the Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can we move in?”

Black turned right around to look at her, eyes wide.

“You want to?” he said, looking quickly at Harry. “You mean it, both of you?”

“Yeah!” said Harry and Violet together.

Black’s gaunt face broke into the first true smile Violet had seen upon on the difference it made was startling, as though a person ten years younger were shining through the starved mask; for a moment, he was recognizable as the man who had laughed at Harry and Violet’s parents’ wedding.

From the back of the line, Professor Snape cleared his throat loudly.

“As usual, Black, you’re presuming rather a lot of yourself,” he said coldly. “I highly doubt you’re any more fit to look after these children than their current guardians are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Snape?” Black snapped, immediately turning to glare at Professor Snape. “Why shouldn’t I be fit? And what about their current guardians — what do  _ you _ know about looking after children?”

“I am a Hogwarts professor,” Snape sneered, “it is quite literally my  _ job _ to look after children. You were half a child yourself when you got yourself thrown in Azkaban, and I can’t imagine your mentality has been improved after twelve years behind bars.”

“Severus,” called Lupin’s voice from the front of the line, just as Sirius had opened his mouth to retort, “perhaps you’ll recall me asking you to be quiet?”

Snape’s face darkened. “I don’t take orders from you, Lupin,” he snarled. “Nor will I encourage the cruel delusions that the Potters will find themselves shacked up with a convicted murderer come the end of term.”

“And here I thought you were a a big fan of cruel delusions,” Sirius muttered. Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but thankfully neither of them spoke again until they reached the end of the tunnel. Crookshanks darted up first; he had evidently pressed his paws against whatever part of the trunk switched off the rest of the tree, because Lupin, Pettigrew, and Violet clambered upward without any sound of savaging branches.

Black helped Harry and Hermione up through the hole, but did not extend such courtesy to Professor Snape; Violet doubted he would have accepted it anyways. He and Black were still glaring sourly at one another.

The grounds were very dark now; the only light came from the distant windows of the castle. Without a word, they set off. Pettigrew was still wheezing and occasionally whimpering. Violet’s mind was buzzing. She and Harry were going to leave the Dursleys. They were going to live with Sirius Black, their parent’s best friend . . . She felt dazed. What would happen when they told the Dursleys that they were going to live with the convict they’d seen on television?

“One wrong move, Peter,” said Lupin threateningly. His wand was still pointed sideways at Pettigrew’s chest, and Violet remembered suddenly to keep hers raised as well.

Silently they tramped through the grounds, the castle lights growing slowly larger. Violet was just thinking how glad she would be to get back and be able to get away from Pettigrew, when —

A cloud shifted. There were suddenly dim shadows on the ground. Their party was bathed in moonlight.

Violet collided with Pettigrew, who had collided with Professor Lupin, who had come to an abrupt halt. She heard someone gasp behind her.

“The potion —” said Hermione, and Violet’s blood ran cold with understanding. “He didn’t take his potion tonight! He’s not safe!”

As if in slow motion, Violet’s eyes traveled from the thick, heavy manacle around her own wrist connecting her to Pettigrew, his other arm bearing an identical manacle which connected him to Lupin. She could see his rigid silhouette just a few steps ahead. Then his limbs started to shake.

“Run,” Black whispered. “Run. Now.”

But Violet couldn’t run. She was chained in place.

“Violet!” she heard Harry gasp, and felt a hand brush her arm, and then sounds of a scuffle but didn’t dare take her eyes off of Lupin to see what was going on.

“Leave it to me,” Black said desperately. “RUN!”

There was a terrible snarling noise, followed by a series of rapid, sickening cracks. Lupin’s head was lengthening. So was his body. The shoulders of his robes stretched and ripped as his shoulders began to hunch, accompanied by another set of terrible snaps. Hair was sprouting visible on his face and hands, which were curling into clawed paws. Crookshanks’ hair was on end; he was backing away —

As the werewolf that was her godfather reared, snapping its long jaws, its head turned to look back behind it and Violet found herself locking eyes with a monster. The werewolf didn’t have Lupin’s kind, hazel eyes; it’s eyes were yellow and poisonous and held none of the love she associated with the man they should have belonged to. Violet’s mouth opened in a scream. Something massive brushed past her and leapt through the air. Sirius had transformed as well. The enormous, bearlike dog bounded forward. As the werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it backward, away from Violet and Pettigrew. They were locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other.

Violet stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon the horrifying battle to notice anything else. It was the feeling of her wand being ripped from her hands that brought her back to reality.

Pettigrew had snatched her wand with his newly freed hand, now aiming it straight at her face. Violet threw herself forward without thinking and bowled Pettigrew right off his feet. Her full weight landed on top of Pettigrew, knocking the wind out of him and knocking her wand out of his hand. She was reaching for it as Pettigrew’s fingers closed around a stone in the grass; the rock collided with the side of Violet’s head and sent stars exploding behind her eyes.

Dazed and in pain, Violet was dimly aware of lots of yelling going on around her. The ground was shifting beneath her — not the ground, Violet realized belatedly, shaking her head, but the thing she had landed on. Pettigrew was transforming.

“Oh, no you bloody don’t,” Violet ground out. Her vision cleared in time to see his bald tail whip through the manacles on her outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the grass. In blind desperation, Violet threw out her right hand after the noise.

A bright red flash blinded her anew as a length of scarlet rope shot from her palm, lashing out into the tall grass. Violet felt it snag, heard a strangled squeak, and a moment later found herself holding the frantically squirming little body of Scabbers — Pettigrew, in his Animagus form.

“Violet!” It was Hermione, kneeling beside her and looking very shaken. “You — you got him? I saw Pettigrew transform, I thought —”

_ “Ow!” _ Violet hissed; Pettigrew had just sank his sharp little teeth into the meat of her palm. Violet gave him a vicious squeeze, not feeling the least bit sorry now that she knew he wasn’t a real rat, and redoubled her hold.

“I’ve got the bastard,” she said, sitting up with Hermione’s help. Pettigrew was still thrashing in her hands, but Violet now had her fingers circled tightly around his thin throat. “Is Harry okay?”

“He ran off after Sirius Black,” Hermione said, her voice high with fear. “The werewolf — Professor Lupin ran off, but Black went after him and then  _ Harry _ went off. I couldn’t stop him, Violet!”

“Idiot,” Violet murmured, trying clumsily to get to her feet; her head was pounding with pain, and her vision swam once more as she stood up. “Which way —”

Violet took three steps toward the dark treeline before a large hand clasped tightly onto her shoulder.

“Don’t you dare, Potter,” said Professor Snape, dragging her back to where she’d just been. Hermione was standing with her hands clasped nervously in front of her, but Violet could see that Ron was also restrained by Snape’s vice-like grip.

“I have to help Harry!” Violet said, trying to shake his hold to little effect. She tried to take another step backward, but her vision swam once more and then she was falling. Professor Snape caught her by the arm and held her upright; Violet could feel him shaking.

“Granger,” Snape snapped suddenly, “my wand. There, in the grass. Bring it here.”

Hermione scrambled amid the ruin of Lupin’s robes and hastily passed Snape’s wand back to him. The tip immediately glowed with bright, white light, illuminating the grounds around them. Ron was a short distance away, green in the face and balancing awkwardly on his good leg.

“Help Weasley walk,” Professor Snape ordered Hermione, still holding tight to Violet’s arm. “Potter — can you walk on your own?”

“Yes, sir,” Violet said, trying again to pull out of his grip. This time he let her go, and Violet immediately staggered backward, falling again. She landed on the springy, unexpected surface of a stretcher levitating in midair.

“Liar,” she heard Snape mutter, and then she was floating away — literally. The stretcher moved silently over the damp grass and all Violet could do was lie back and stare up at the starry sky above. The full moon shone brightly through the clouds, fixed in the sky like a great eye.

Violet managed to stay conscious until they reached the great wooden doors of the entrance hall. She was aware enough to hear several cries of alarm and a series of footsteps coming down the steps, and then the darkness that had been lingering at the edges of her vision rushed in all at once and swallowed her whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I had SO much fun writing this chapter.


	19. Hermione's Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

“Shocking business . . . shocking . . . miracle none of them died . . . never heard the like . . . by thunder, it was lucky you were there, Snape . . .”

“Thank you, Minister.”

“Order of Merlin, Second Class, I’d say. First class, if I can wangle it!”

“Thank you very much indeed, Minister.”

“Pity about this business with Black . . . The  _ Prophet _ will surely have a field day over this, oh dear . . . Couldn’t be helped, of course, but I’m afraid the public may have a very different outlook . . .”

Violet lay listening with her eyes tight shut. She felt very groggy. The words she was hearing seemed to be travelling very slowly from her ears to her brain, so that it was difficult to understand . . . Her head was throbbing, her eyelids too heavy to lift . . . She wanted to lie here, on this comfortable bed, forever . . .

". . .very impressed, Snape, with your handling of the dementors . . . Not many I've met have that sort of will . . . Quite the stroke of luck, your timing, getting there to save the boy. Really, though, such a shame about Black . . ."

“There was nothing to be done for him, though I took the necessary precautions. Bound and gagged him, conjured stretchers, and brought them both straight back to the castle.”

There was a pause. Violet’s brain seemed to be moving a little faster, and as it did, a gnawing sensation grew in the pit of her stomach . . .

She opened her eyes.

Everything was far too bright. Violet closed her eyes again and blinked, hard, waiting to adjust to the minimal light. She was lying in the dark hospital wing. At the very end of the ward, she could make out Madam Pomfrey with her back to her, bending over a bed. Violet squinted. Ron’s red hair was visible beneath Madam Pomfrey’s arm.

Violet moved her head over on the pillow. In the bed to her right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling across her bed. Her eyes were open too. She looked Petrified, and when she saw that Violet was awake, pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed to the hospital wing door. It was ajar, and the voices of Cornelius Fudge and Professor Snape were coming through it from the corridor outside.

Madam Pomfrey now came walking briskly up the dark ward to Violet’s bed. She turned to look at her. She was carrying the largest block of chocolate Violet had ever seen in her life. It looked like a small boulder.

“Ah, you’re awake!” she said briskly. She placed the chocolate on Violet’s bedside table and began breaking it apart with a small hammer.

“Where’s Harry?” said Violet at once.

“I’m here, Vi,” said Harry’s voice from her left, and she looked over to see her brother in the bed on the other side of her. He looked very pale and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“What happened?” Violet asked, trying to sit up. Madam Pomfrey’s hands were on her shoulders at once, pushing her back down onto the mattress.

“Now, dear, you’ve got a concussion — took a nasty blow to the head,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I won’t have you getting up and doing yourself further injury.”

“But what  _ happened?” _ Violet pressed, peering at Harry. “Are you hurt? Where’s Sirius? What happened to Pettigrew?”

“Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey soothingly, “it’s alright. They’ve got them both. Black’s been dealt with, and Pettigrew is locked away upstairs —”

“What d’you mean he’s been dealt with?” Violet said, her voice going high with panic. “Harry, what’s going on? Is he alright?”

Harry didn’t answer her. His eyes were lowered down into his lap, staring at his hands, which Violet could now see were faintly trembling. She turned to look at Hermione for answers, but Hermione wouldn’t meet her eyes either. A terrible tightness closed around Violet’s throat.

“Is he — dead?”

Harry’s voice was very faint. He croaked, “The dementors . . .”

“Miss Potter, dear, please, this isn’t the time,” Madam Pomfrey said, trying to press a glass of water toward her. Violet threw back the covers and knocked the glass to the floor, not caring that it shattered, not caring that she was being shouted at as she ran into the corridor outside where Fudge and Professor Snape were standing.

“Violet, Violet, what’s this?” said Fudge, looking agitated. “You should be in bed —”

“Where’s Sirius?” she demanded, walking right up to the Minister of Magic and staring him in the face. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

Fudge went slightly green

“Ah, well, Violet m’dear, I’m afraid that’s rather a sensitive topic at the moment. Things have come to light, you know — recently — There wasn’t time —”

“TELL ME WHERE HE IS!” Violet shouted.

“He’s here, Violet,” said Harry’s voice. Violet whipped around to see her brother standing weakly in the doorway, leaning heavily on Hermione. His eyes were hollow and red-rimmed, and she could see a terrible sadness in them. Harry nodded his head back into the hospital wing. “C’mon . . . you can see him . . .”

With the blood pounding in her ears and and a sick churning in her guts, Violet slowly walked back to the doors of the infirmary. With Hermione’s help Harry turned away and led her to the back of the room, past Ron’s bed, where the same high blue curtain that had once hidden the Petrified Colin Creevey from view had been erected. As Violet reached out to pull it aside, Madam Pomfrey quickly bustled in front of them.

“Absolutely not,” she said stiffly. “Children, that is  _ enough! _ All of you return to your beds at once, or I’ll have the headmaster in here to —”

“Ah, but what could I possibly do that you cannot, Madam Pomfrey?” said a new voice from the door; Professor Dumbledore had arrived, looking very grave. The hospital wing was silent as he approached, Snape and Fudge following curiously behind him.

“It’s alright, Poppy,” Dumbledore said softly. “Please, let Violet see Sirius Black.”

“Headmaster!” Madam Pomfrey gasped. “The children shouldn’t see anyone in such a state, there’s nothing they can —”

Without waiting for Madam Pomfrey to finish, Violet darted under her arm and slipped around the curtain. Much to her surprise, Sirius was sitting up in his hospital bed. The blankets were folded neatly over his lap and there was a glass of water on the table beside him.

“Sirius!” Violet exclaimed, rushing to his side. “Are you alright? What happened to Professor Lupin?”

Sirius didn’t answer. He didn’t so much as turn his head toward her, though his eyes were open. Violet reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Sirius? Can you hear me? It’s Violet — what’s the matter?”

Again, Sirius did not respond. His gaze was fixed on the wall across from him, unblinking, and he gave no response to Violet’s grip on his hand. His skin was warm, but his expression was blank and slack, as though he were sleeping.

“Sirius?” Violet repeated. A terrible chill was spreading through her heart. She dropped Sirius’ hand as though it had burned her and took a step back, away from his empty eyes and blank stare.

“He’s gone, Vi,” said Harry from behind her. Violet turned to him with wild eyes.

“What d’you mean he’s gone? He’s right there, Harry — what’s wrong with him? Why won’t he answer me?”

Harry’s eyes were nearly as empty as Sirius’. He turned away from her as well, looking down at the floor. Violet wanted to reach out and shake him, shout at him, demand that he explain the truth she was already coming to know in her heart —

“They Kissed him,” Harry mumbled. “The dementors, by the lake . . . I couldn’t stop them . . . I wasn’t — wasn’t strong enough . . .”

There was a bustling sound and a firm arm fixed itself around Violet’s shoulders, steering away from Sirius’s bedside.

“That’s enough,” said Madam Pomfrey shortly.  _ “Enough, _ dear, come along . . . there’s nothing to be done for him now.”

The curtain was moved back into place, closing the empty body of Sirius Black away from the rest of the hospital wing, and Violet and Harry were pulled back around toward their beds. Fudge, Hermione, and Professors Snape and Dumbledore were standing silently in the middle of the room; Fudge was ringing the rim of his lime-green bowler in his nervous hands. Professor Dumbledore stepped forward.

“My apologies, Poppy, but I need a word with Mr. and Miss Potter, as well as Miss Granger,” he said. “If you could excuse us —”

“Headmaster,” Madam Pomfrey said sharply, as though digging her heels in for a fight, “they need treatment, they need rest —”

“This cannot wait,” said Dumbledore. “I must insist.”

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and strode away into her office at the end of the ward, slamming the door behind her. Fudge, still looking quite queasy, consulted the large gold pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat.

“Ah, the dementors should have arrived by now,” he said. “I’ll go and meet them. Dumbledore, I’ll meet you upstairs.”

He crossed to the door and held it open for Professor Snape, but Snape hadn’t moved.

“You’ve spoken to Pettigrew?” Snape whispered, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore’s face.

“I have. I wish to speak to the students alone,” Dumbledore repeated.

Snape looked on the verge of arguing; his black eyes flicked from Professor Dumbledore to Harry, to Violet, and then back. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the ward behind Fudge. The door closed behind them, and Dumbledore turned to Harry, Violet, and Hermione.

“How could they?” Violet said at once, staring up into his gleaming blue eyes. “He was innocent — how  _ could _ they?”

“The dementors had their orders,” Dumbledore said calmly, “and those capable of ordering them down would not learn the truth until it was far too late. Now, children, I ask that you listen before the point of no return elapses once more.”

“Can the Kiss be reversed?” Violet asked, breathless, desperate, and deflated when Dumbledore shook his head.

“It is impossible to retrieve a soul once it has been lost. But” — there was an odd, intense gleam behind Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles — “it may be possible to prevent such a terrible loss. What we need is more  _ time _ .”

“But —” Hermione began. And then her eyes became very round. “OH!”

“Now, pay attention,” said Dumbledore, speaking very low, and very clearly. “Sirius was found by the Black Lake’s edge; Harry, I trust you to find the way. If all goes well, you will be able to save more than one innocent life tonight. But remember this, all of you:  _ you must not be seen. _ Miss Granger, you know the law — you know what is at stake . . .  _ You  _ —  _ must  _ —  _ not  _ — _ be  _ —  _ seen.” _

Violet didn’t have a clue what was going on. Dumbledore had turned on his heel and looked back as he reached the door.

“I am going to lock you in. It is —” he consulted his watch, “five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns should do it. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” repeated Violet as the door closed behind Professor Dumbledore. “Three turns? What does any of that mean? What are we supposed to do?”

But Hermione was fumbling with the neck of her robes, pulling from beneath them a very long, very fine gold chain.

“Violet, Harry, come here,” she said urgently.  _ “Quick!” _

Violet moved toward her, completely bewildered. Hermione was holding the chain out. She saw a tiny, sparkling hourglass hanging from it.

“Here —”

She had thrown the chain around both Harry and Violet’s necks too.

“Ready?” she said breathlessly.

“What are we doing?” Harry said, sounding as lost as Violet felt.

Hermione turned the hourglass over three times.

The dark ward dissolved. Violet had the sensation that she was flying very fast, backward. A blur of colours and shapes rushed past her, her ears were pounding, she tried to yell but couldn’t hear her own voice —

And then she felt solid ground beneath her feet, and everything came into focus again —

She was standing next to Harry and Hermione in the deserted entrance hall and a stream of golden sunlight was falling across the paved floor from the open door. Violet looked wildly around at Hermione and her brother, the chain of the hourglass cutting into her neck.

“Hermione, what —”

“In here!” Hermione seized them both by the arm and dragged them across the hall to the door of a broom closet; she opened it, pushed the twins inside among the buckets and mops, then slammed the door behind them.

“What — how — Hermione, what happened?” Harry gasped.

“We’ve gone back in time,” Hermione whispered, lifting the chain from their necks in the darkness. “Three hours back . . .”

Violet gaped at her.

_ “What?” _

“Shh! Listen! Someone’s coming! I think — I think it might be us!”

Hermione had her ear pressed against the cupboard door.

“Footsteps across the hall . . . yes, I think it’s us going down to Hagrid’s!”

“What are you talking about?” Violet whispered. “I haven’t been to Hagrid’s since —”

“Not  _ you, _ Harry and Ron and me! I’m sure it’s us. It doesn’t sound like more than three people . . . and we’re walking slowly because we’re under the Invisibility Cloak —”

She broke off, listening intently.

“We’ve gone down the front steps . . .”

Hermione sat down on an upturned bucket, looking desperately anxious, but Violet wanted a few questions answered.

“What is that hourglass thing?”

“It’s called a Time-Turner,” Hermione whispered, “and I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day back. I’ve been using it all year to get to all my classes. Professor McGonagall made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone. She had to write all sorts of letters to the Ministry of Magic so I could have one. She had to tell them that I was a model student, and that I’d never, ever use it for anything except my studies . . . I’ve been turning it back so I could do hours over again, that’s how I’ve been doing several lessons at once, see? But . . .

_ “I don’t understand what Dumbledore wants us to do. _ Why did he tell us to go back three hours? How’s that going to help Sirius?”

Violet glanced at Harry, hoping he might have answers, but Harry was staring at Hermione’s shadowy face.

“There must be something that happened around now he wants us to change,” he said slowly. “What happened? We were walking down to Hagrid’s three hours ago . . .”

“This  _ is _ three hours ago, and we  _ are _ walking down to Hagrid’s,” said Hermione. “Violet, what were you doing?”

“I was going to see Professor Lupin,” Violet said, frowning. “Well, I was going to see Tracey in the hospital wing, but I got distracted and went to see him instead. How does that help?”

Hermione looked more anxious that Violet had ever seen her.

“I don’t know . . . Harry? Do you have any ideas?”

Harry’s face was screwed up in concentration. “Dumbledore just said — just said we could save more than one innocent life . . .” His eyes widened. “Buckbeak! Hermione, we’re going to save Buckbeak!”

“But — how will that help Sirius?”

“I don’t know! But we can still save him, doesn’t that matter?”

From what Violet could see of Hermione’s face, she looked terrified.

“If we manage that without being seen, it’ll be a miracle!”

“Well, we’ve got to try, haven’t we?” said Harry. He stood up and pressed his ear against the door.

“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s there . . . Wait! I hear footsteps . . . Just one person, it sounds like . . .”

“Me,” Violet whispered, eyes wide. “That’s got to be me, heading up to Lupin’s office . . .”

The realization hit Violet that she was not only there, in the cupboard, but also  _ outside _ of the cupboard walking across the entrance hall. It was a very strange sensation. She shook her head.

“We should be alright, I didn’t linger. Come on.”

Harry pushed open the closet door. The entrance hall was deserted, with only the faint echo of Violet’s footsteps disappearing up the grand staircase. As quickly and quietly as they could, they darted out of the closet and down the stone steps. The shadows were already lengthening, the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest gilded once more with gold.

“If anyone’s looking out of the window —” Hermione squeaked, looking up at the castle behind them.

“We’ll run for it,” said Violet determinedly. “Straight into the forest, alright? We’ll have to hide behind a tree or something and keep a lookout —”

“Okay, but we’ll go around by the greenhouses!” said Hermione breathlessly. “We need to keep out of sight of Hagrid’s front door, or we’ll see us! We must be nearly at Hagrid’s by now!”

Still working out what that meant, Harry and Violet set off at a sprint, Hermione behind them. They tore across the vegetable gardens to the greenhouses, paused for a moment behind them, then set off again, fast as they could, skirting around the Whomping Willow, tearing toward the shelter of the forest . . .

Safe in the shadows of the trees, Violet turned around; seconds later, Hermione and Harry arrived beside her, panting.

“Right,” Hermione gasped. “We need to sneak over to Hagrid’s . . . Keep out of sight, you two . . .”

They made their way silently through the trees, keeping to the very edge of the forest. Then, as they glimpsed the front of Hagrid’s house, they heard a knock upon his door. They moved quickly behind a wide oak trunk and peered out around the sides. Hagrid had appeared in his doorway, shaking and white, looking around to see who had knocked. And then, from across the way even though he was standing right beside her, Violet heard her brother’s voice.

“It’s us. We’re wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Let us in and we can take it off.”

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered. He stood back, then shut the door quickly.

“This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” Harry said fervently.

“I should bloody well hope so,” Violet muttered.

“Let’s move along a bit,” Hermione whispered. “We need to get nearer to Buckbeak!”

They crept through the trees until they saw the nervous hippogriff, tethered to the fence around Hagrid’s pumpkin patch.

“Now?” Violet whispered.

“No!” said Hermione. “If we steal him now, the Minister will think Hagrid set him free! We’ve got to wait until they’ve seen he’s tied outside!”

“That’s going to give us about sixty seconds,” said Harry, looking very pale. This was starting to seem impossible.

At that moment, there was a crash of breaking china from inside Hagrid’s cabin.

“That’s Hagrid breaking the milk jug,” Hermione whispered. “I’m going to find Scabbers in a moment —”

“Scabbers?” Violet said in alarm. “You mean he was with Hagrid?”

“He must’ve been trying to hide until nightfall . . .”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, they heard Hermione’s shriek of surprise.

“Hermione,” said Violet suddenly, “what if we — we just run in there and grab Pettigrew — show him to Dumbledore and put a stop to everything —”

“No!” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Don’t you understand? We’re breaking one of the most important wizarding laws! Nobody’s supposed to change time, nobody! You heard Dumbledore, if we’re seen —”

_ “You _ can’t be seen!” Violet pointed out.  _ “I’m _ up in the castle with Professor Lupin right now, I could just —”

“Harry, what would you think if Violet burst into Hagrid’s house and started raving about Scabbers being a man?” said Hermione.

Harry blinked uncomfortably.

“I’d think it was a prank,” he said. “Or I’d think she’d gone mad, and . . .”

_ “Exactly! _ You wouldn’t understand, you might even attack her! Don’t you see? Professor McGonagall told me that awful things have happened when wizards have meddled with time . . . Loads of them end up killing their past or future selves by mistake, or accidentally hurting the people they’re trying to save!”

“Okay!” said Violet, miffed. “It was just an idea, I just thought —”

But Hermione nudged her and pointed toward the castle. Violet and Harry peered around each other to get a clear view of the distant front doors. Dumbledore, Fudge, and Macnai the executioner were coming down the steps.

“We’re about to come out!” Hermione breathed.

And sure enough, moments later, Hagrid’s back door opened and Violet saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione walking out of it with Hagrid. She looked at Harry and Hermione beside her, then back to the Harry and Hermione across the way, then had to rub her eyes very hard to remember that this wasn’t all some sort of wild dream.

“It’s okay, Beaky, it’s okay . . .” Hagrid said to Buckbeak. Then he turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Go on. Get goin’.”

“Hagrid, we can’t —”

“We’ll tell them what really happened —”

“They can’t kill him —”

“Go! It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’ all!”

Violet watched her brother and his friends disappear beneath the Invisibility cloak once more.

“Go quick. Don’ listen . . .”

There was a knock on Hagrid’s front door. The execution party had arrived. Hagrid turned around and headed back into his cabin, leaving the back door ajar. Violet watched the grass flatten in patches all around the cabin and heard three pairs of feet retreating. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gone . . . but the Harry and Hermione standing next to Violet, hidden in the trees, could now hear what was happening inside the cabin through the back door.

“Where is the beast?” came a gruff, cold voice that Violet assumed must belong to Macnair.

“Out — outside,” Hagrid croaked.

Violet pulled her head out of sight as Mcnair’s face appeared in Hagrid’s window, staring out at Buckbeak. Then they heard Fudge.

“We — er — have to read you the official notice of execution, Hagrid. I’ll make it quick. And then you and Macnair need to sign it. Macnair, you’re supposed to listen too, that’s procedure —”

Macnair’s face vanished from the window. It was now or never.

“Wait here,” Harry whispered, briefly squeezing Violet’s shoulder. “I’ll do it.”

As Fudge’s voice started again, Harry darted out from behind his tree, vaulted the fence into the pumpkin patch, and approached Buckbeak.

_ “It is the decision of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures that the hippogriff Buckbeak, hereafter called the condemned, shall be execution on the sixth of June at sundown  _ —”

Violet’s fingernails dug into the bark of the three she was hidden behind as she watched her brother approach Buckbeak and bow politely. Buckbeak sank onto his scaly knees and then stood up again. Harry began to fumble with the knot of the rope tying Buckbeak to the fence.

_ “. . . sentenced to execution by beheading to be carried out by the Committee’s appointed executioner, Walden Macnair . . .” _

Harry had a hold of the rope, pulling, but the hippogriff wasn’t moving.

_ “. . . as witnessed below. _ Hagrid, you sign here . . .”

Harry was yanking on the rope with all his might, but Buckbeak had only taken a single step forward before digging in his feet.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” said Fudge with a sugh. “Hagrid, perhaps it will be better if you stay inside . . .”

“No, I — I wan ter be with him . . . I don’ wan’ him ter be alone —”

_ “Buckbeak, move!” _ Harry hissed.

Buckbeak began to walk, rustling its wings irritably. They were still ten feet away from the forest, in place view of Hagrid’s back door.

“One moment, please, Macnair,” came Dumbledore’s voice. “You need to sign too.”

Harry heaved on the rope. Buckbeak snapped his beak and walked a little faster.

“Quick! Quick!” Violet moaned, darting out from behind her tree, seizing the rope too and adding her weight to make Buckbeak move faster. He broke into a grudging trot; they had reached the trees . . . a few steps more and they were now blocked from sight; they couldn’t see Hagrid’s garden at all.

“Stop!” Hermione hissed. “They might hear us —”

Hagrid’s back door had opened with a bang. Harry, Violet, and Hermione stood quite still; even Buckbeak froze, and seemed to be listening intently.

Silence . . . then —

“Where is it?” said the bewildered voice of Fudge. “Where is the beast?”

“It was tied here!” said the executioner furiously. “I saw it! Just here!”

“How extraordinary,” said Dumbledore. There was a note of amusement in his voice.

“Beaky!” said Hagrid hoarsely.

There was a swishing noise, and then the thud of an axe. The executioner seemed to have swung it into the fence in anger. And then came the howling, and Hagrid’s words cut through his sobs.

“Gone! Gone! Bless his little beak, he’s  _ gone! _ Musta pulled himself free! Beaky, yeh clever boy!”

Buckbeak started to strain against the rope, trying to get back to Hagrid. Hermione had to the join in the effort to hold onto the rope to stop him.

“Someone untied him!” the executioner was snarling. “We should search the grounds, the forest —”

“Macnair, if Buckbeak has indeed been stolen, do you really think the thief will have led him away on foot?” said Dumbledore, still sounding amused. “Search the skies, if you will . . . Hagrid, I could do with a cup of tea. Or a large brandy.”

“O’ — o’ course, Professor,” said Hagrid, who sounded weak with happiness. “Come in, come in . . .”

Harry, Violet, and Hermione listened closely. They heard footsteps, the soft cursing of the executioner, the snap of the door, and then silence once more.

“Now what?” whispered Harry, looking around.

“We’ll have to hide in here,” said Hermione, who looked very shaken. “We need to wait until they’ve gone back to the castle, then I suppose we can . . . we can just let Buckbeak go? Oh, but we’ve got to be able to get to Sirius . . .”

She looked nervously over her shoulder into the depths of the forest. The sun was setting now.

“We’re going to have to move,” Harry said, looking thoughtful. “We’ve got to be able to see the Whomping Willow, or we won’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” said Hermione, getting a firmer grip on Buckbeak’s rope. “But we’ve got to keep out of sight, remember . . .”

The three of them moved around the edge of the forest, darkness falling thickly around them, until they were hidden behind a clump of trees through which they could make out the Willow.

“There’s Ron!” said Harry suddenly.

A dark figure was sprinting across the lawn and its shout echoed through the still night air.

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come  _ here _ —”

And then they saw two more figures materialize out of nowhere. Violet watch Harry and Hermione appear, chasing after Ron. Then she saw Ron dive.

_ “Gotcha! _ Get off, you stinking cat —”

“There’s Sirius!” said Harry. The great shape of a dog had bounded out from the roots of the Willow. They saw him bowl Harry, then seize Ron . . .

“This is awful . . .” Violet murmured, looking away from the scene of violence.

“It looks even worse from here, actually,” said Harry, watching the dog pulling Ron into the roots. “Ouch — look, Hermione, I just got walloped by the tree — and so did you — this is  _ weird  _ —”

The Whomping Willow was creaking and lashing out with its lower branches; Harry and Hermione were darting here and there, trying to reach the trunk. And then the tree froze.

“That was Crookshanks pressing the knot,” said Hermione.

“I can’t  _ believe _ him!” Violet said, startling Harry and Hermione. “How could my  _ cat _ have been keeping secrets from me like this? I feed him and love him and try not to kick him off the bed at night, and this is how he —”

“There we go,” Harry muttered, pointing. “We’re in.”

The moment they disappeared, the tree began to move away. Seconds later, they heard footstep quite close by. Dumbledore, Macnair, and Fudge were making they way up to the castle.

“Right after we’d gone down into the passage!” said Hermione. “If  _ only _ Dumbledore had come with us . . .”

“Macnair and Fudge would’ve come, too,” said Harry bitterly. “I bet you anything Fudge would’ve told Macnair to murder Sirius on the spot . . .”

Violet shivered. They watched the three men climb the castle steps and disappear from view. For a few minutes, the scene was deserted. Then —

“Here comes Lupin!” said Violet as they saw another figure sprinting down the stone steps and haring toward the Willow. Violet looked up at the sky. Clouds were obscuring the moon completely.

They watched Professor Lupin seize a broken branch from the ground and prod the knot on the trunk. The tree stopped fighting. Lupin, too, disappeared into the gap in its roots.

“If he’d only grabbed the cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just lying there . . .”

He turned to Hermione.

“If I just dashed out now and grabbed it, Snape’d never be able to get it and —”

“And then I wouldn’t have gotten there, either,” Violed hissed. “And you heard Hermione, Harry, we can’t be seen —”

“How can you stand this?” Harry asked her fiercely. “Just standing here and watching it happen?”

“Because we’ve got to!” Hermione whispered urgently. “Harry, we can’t just go around changing things, it’s  _ dangerous _ —”

Just then, they heard a burst of song. It was Hagrid, making his way up to the castle, singing at the top of his voice, and weaving slightly as he walked. A large bottle was swinging from his hand.

_ “See?” _ Hermione whispered.  _ “See what would have happened if you’d gone? _ We’ve got to keep out of sight.  _ No, Buckbeak!” _

The hippogriff was making frantic attempts to get to Hagrid again; Harry and Violet seized the rope too, straining to hold Buckbeak back. They watched Hagrid meander tipsily up to the castle. He was gone. Buckbeak stopped fighting to get away. His head drooped sadly.

“There, there, Beaky,” said Violet, stroking his feathers softly. “You’ll see him again, don’t worry . . .”

Barely two minutes later, the castle doors flew open yet again, and Professor Snape came charging out of them, running toward the Willow.

“Hang on, where are you, Violet?” Hermione asked, looking around Buckbeak’s neck at her. “I thought you came in with Professor Snape?”

Violet shook her head. “I followed him,” she said, “after I broke out of Lupin’s office. Snape locked me in after he saw everything happening on the map.”

“He locked you  _ in?” _ said Harry furiously, rounding on her. “Why didn’t he send you to Dumbledore, or to Fudge?”

Violet shrugged uncomfortably. She thought she might know the answer to that, but didn’t want to say it out loud; if Professor Snape had his way, Sirius would have never left the Shrieking Shack alive.

“Look! There you are!” Violet looked around just in time to see her own small form darting across the lawn after Snape, moving quickly and keeping to the shadows. Snape skidded to a halt near the tree, looking around. He grabbed the cloak and held it up.

“Get your filthy hands off it,” Harry snarled under his breath. Violet thwacked him hard on the arm.

Snape seized the branch Lupin had used to freeze the tree, prodded the knot, and vanished from view beneath the cloak. Seconds later, Violet watched herself sprint toward the tree and disappear beneath the roots as well.

“So that’s it,” said Hermione quietly. “We’re all down there . . . and now we’ve just got to wait until we come back up again . . .”

She took the end of Buckbeak’s rope and looked uncertainly at it.

“Should we . . . should we let him go now?”

“Won’t he just go straight back to Hagrid’s?” Harry said, frowning. Violet turned to look sadly at the hippogriff, who had perked up at Hagrid’s name.

“Even if he does, Hagrid will see him off again . . . we saved his life, but I don’t think we can protect him, Harry.”

“We could try to run him off,” Harry suggested. “Y’know, frighten him, make him go away —”

“Didn’t you see what he did to Malfoy?” Violet said sharply. “And that was just for insulting him — Buckbeak’s not a mindless beast, but he’s still dangerous. And hippogriffs are proud; if we attack him, he’ll fight back rather than running away.”

The three of them looked uncomfortably at one another. 

“D’you supposed we could just leave him here?” Harry said, looking even less hopeful than before. “Come back for him later?”

“We might not be able to,” Hermione said quietly, looking suddenly pale. “When Professor Lupin transformed . . . he went running in this direction, didn’t he? If he found Buckbeak, all tied up . . .”

Violet shuddered again, immediately pushing the horrible thoughts from her mind.

“Fine, then, we let him go,” she said firmly. “If he gets caught, at least we can say we tried. Besides — he’s smart. We can at least give him a head start, yeah?”

Harry and Hermione still looked uncertain, but without a better plan in place and time running short, there wasn’t much else for them to do. Very carefully, Violet stepped up and untied the rope from Buckbeak’s neck. The hippogriff immediately threw his head back and fluffed his feathers, as though sensing freedom.

“Buckbeak,” Violet said firmly, careful not blink. “You have to fly away from here. Do you know what to do? Be a good hippogriff and  _ fly!” _

For a moment, Buckbeak only looked at her, his great orange eyes glinting in the darkness. Then, without warning, he trotted forward out of the forest, spread his wings, and took off into the night sky. Harry and Hermione rushed forward to get a look at his massive silhouette as he flapped and soared away, thankfully in the opposite direction of Hagrid’s cabin.

“There,” Violet said, feeling slightly breathless. “I — I can’t believe that worked.”

“I can’t either,” Harry said, still staring at the now-distant shadow of Buckbeak in the sky. “But he’s gone now . . . so, I suppose all we can do is hope he makes it okay.”

Hermione sat down on the dry ground with a soft huff, arms around her knees. Violet could see the tears on her cheeks, and realized suddenly that her own face was wet as well. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her robe.

“Alright. So now we just wait until it’s time to.” She sat down too, shortly followed by Harry, and the three of them waited in uncomfortable silence for several minutes.

“Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, “there’s something I don’t understand . . . When the dementors were — when they got Sirius . . . why didn’t they get you, too? How did you get away from them?”

Harry frowned at the ground between them, his eyes distant.

“I . . . I don’t know,” he said softly. “There were so many of them . . . I kept trying to fight them, to stay awake . . . I was thinking happy thoughts, like Professor Lupin taught us, but — but it was so  _ hard _ to think.” He swallowed, looking pained. “I couldn’t concentrate. All I could hear was my parents, screaming, and Voldemort laughing as he killed them, and Sirius being — being Kissed . . .”

Violet recoiled in horror,

“You were  _ there? _ You were with him when it happened?”

Slowly, Harry nodded. He kept his eyes on the ground, and didn’t speak for a long time.

“It was horrible,” he muttered. “Worse than anything . . . but then the dementors were all around me, and I couldn’t fight anymore, and I . . . I reckon I passed out again. When I woke up, Professor Snape was there, and I was floating on a stretcher, I suppose . . .”

Violet digested this all in pained silence. She had not only lost Sirius, a new family member, but very nearly lost her brother as well. The thought was jarring and frightening. She would have been all alone in the world.

“We’re going to stop it,” Violet said, resolute. She grabbed Harry’s hand and squeezed until he looked up at her. “That’s got to be what Dumbledore sent us to do; save Sirius, and save you, too. We’ll protect him, Harry.”

“How?” Harry croaked. “We can’t be seen, Violet, and neither of us is strong enough to —”

“We’re not strong enough alone, I know,” Violet said. “But  _ together _ . . .”

Harry looked at her hard, his tired eyes searching her tired face. Then his expression hardened, and he squeezed her hand back.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

“You have to be careful,” Hermione said abruptly, and they both looked at her. “You’ll have to be really, really careful, you two. Harry, if you see yourself —”

“We won’t be seen, Hermione,” Violet said firmly. She grabbed Hermione hand and squeezed as well. “I promise, we’ll be careful.”

They sat like that, nervously holding onto one another, and didn’t say a word. And then, at last, after over and hour . . .

“Here we come!” Hermione gasped.

The three of them got to their feet. They saw Lupin, Pettigrew, and Violet clambering awkwardly out of the hole in the roots, followed by Sirius Black, and Harry and Hermione, and Professor Snape coming out behind them all. They all began to walk toward the castle.

Violet’s heart was starting to beat very fast. She glanced up at the sky. Any moment now, that cloud was going to move aside and show the moon . . .

“We’ve got move,” Violet muttered suddenly. She looked back at Harry and Hermione. “Hermione, you said earlier — when he transforms, Lupin comes this way, doesn’t he? If he could have run into Buckbeak, what’s to stop him from running into  _ us?” _

Hermione and Harry looked at each other, dawning looks of horror on their faces. Violet scrambled to her feet and flung her other hand out to Hermione.

“Come on — quick, we’ve got to move!”

“Where will we go?” Hermione said, voice high with panic. “Where are we going to hide? The dementors will be coming any moment —”

“Back to Hagrid’s!” Harry said. “It’s empty now — come on!”

They ran as fast as they could, still holding onto each other’s hands. They could hear the werewolf howling behind them . . .

The cabin was in sight; Violet skidded to the door, wrenched it open, and Harry and Hermione flashed past her; Violet threw herself in after them and bolted the door. Fang the boarhound barked loudly.

“Shh, Fang, it’s us!” said Hermione, hurrying over and scratching his ears to quiet him. “That was really close!” she said to Harry.

“Yeah . . .”

Harry was looking out of the window. Violet stared out the opposite side, toward the dark treeline.

“We need to get into the forest,” she murmured, looking at her brother. “Dumbledore said you’d know where to go . . ?”

“The lake,” Harry said, nodding shortly. “I can find it. We should get there before me and Sirius.”

“Oh, you must be careful!” Hermione gasped, staring between them both, looking stricken. “There’s a werewolf out there — and the dementors —”

“Come on,” Harry said, heading for the door again. “Let’s hurry, Vi.”

The two of them stepped outside and edged around the cabin. They could hear yelping in the distance, which must have meant Sirius and Lupin were still fighting. Violet felt Harry grab ahold of her hand once more and then she was being pulled along toward the lake. They raced across the grass toward the dark water, panting and nervous, and Harry led them both behind a bush at the very edge of the water.

And then there were the dementors. They were emerging out of the darkness from every direction, gliding around the edges of the lake . . . They were moving away from where Harry and Violet were hidden, to the opposite bank . . . They wouldn’t have to get near them . . .

On the other side of the dark lake, two figures staggered to the edge of the water. Sirius collapsed to the ground, holding his head, moaning pitifully, and Harry appeared beside him, wand drawn. Violet watched, chilled to the bone, as her brother vainly tried to ward off a hundred dementors all by himself . . . Faint clouds of silver burst from his wand as he screamed, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight them all off. One of them, larger than the others, was descending toward the crumpled figure of Sirius Black on the ground, reaching out for him —

“Now!” Violet said, holding tight to Harry’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

They leapt out from behind the bush and stood shoulder to shoulder, wands raised and hands clasped tightly together.

_ “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” _ they yelled in unison.

And out of the ends of their wands burst, not a shapeless cloud of mist, but a pair of blinding, dazzling silver animals. Violet screwed up her eyes, trying to see what they were. They looked like horses; one large and strong, the other small and swift. They were galloping silently away from them, across the black surface of the lake. She saw them lower their heads and charge at the swarming dementors . . . Now they were galloping around and around the black shapes on the ground, and the dementors were falling back, scattering, retreating into the darkness . . . they were gone.

The Patronuses turned. They were cantering back toward Harry and Violet across the still surface of the water. They weren’t horses. They weren’t unicorns, either. They were deer. A great stag with a pair of magnificent antlers, and a slight and graceful doe, shining brightly as the moon above . . . they were coming back to them . . .

The stag and doe stopped on the bank. Their hooves made no mark on the soft ground as they stared at Harry and Violet with their large, silver eyes. Slowly, they bowed their heads. Violet and Harry came to the same realization.

_ “Prongs . . .” _ Harry whispered.

He reached out, but as his trembling fingertips stretched toward the creatures, they vanished.

Harry and Violet stood there, holding onto one another, breathing hard. Slowly, they turned to face one another.

“We did it . . .” Violet breathed, fully aware of the tears sliding freely down her cheeks. “Harry . . . we saved him . . .”

Looking out across the bank, they could see the two black shapes on the ground. Both of them were moving, crawling weakly toward one another. Violet heard herself let out a sob.

“Come on,” the Harry beside her said, tugging lightly at her hand. “We’ve got to hide again, before they see us . . .”

The two of them quickly retreated back behind the bush, peering out at the other bank. Moment later another dark shape was running across the grass; Professor Snape approached Harry and Sirius, both of whom were now laying still on the ground. Harry and Violet watched him conjuring stretchers and lifting their limp forms onto them. Then, wand held out in front of him, he moved them away toward the castle.

“It’s over . . .” Violet said, staring after Snape. “Harry, we  _ really _ did it . . .”

They both whirled around at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching behind them. Hermione was running across the grounds and skid to a stop in front of them both.

“Did you do it?” she panted. “Is Sirius okay?”

“He wasn’t Kissed,” Harry said, his smile gleaming in the moonlight. “He’s going to be okay, Hermione. We’re — we’re going to go and live with him, aren’t we, Vi?”

Violet felt strangely giddy. She nodded enthusiastically, but Hermione was biting her lip.

“Everything’s going to be different now,” she said nervously. “When we get back . . . Harry, Violet, you can never say anything about this, do you understand? We’ve just — oh, but we’ve just changed the  _ future! _ Nobody else will remember things the same way we do!”

“You mean I’ll still remember Sirius being Kissed, like before?” Harry said, his smile dropping. Hermione shrugged helplessly.

“I — I don’t know, Harry. I’ve never done anything like this before —”

“How long until we have to go back?” Violet said, staring back up at the castle. Hermione looked down at her watch.

“We’ve got about forty-five minutes until Dumbledore locks the door to the hospital wing. We’ve got to get back inside before then, and before anyone realizes we’re missing . . .”

“How are we doing to do that?” Violet asked. “Without being seen, I mean — we can’t just go rushing in right now, can we?”

“Of course not! We’re all still in there, and the Minister is there, and if  _ he _ were to see us —!”

“Alright, so we’ll hide,” Harry said. “Come on, we can get inside the castle and hide in the same closet as before. Let’s go.”

Together, looking carefully over their shoulders and around every corner they came to, Harry, Violet, and Hermione snuck into the entrance hall and crossed quickly to the same broom closet they’d waited in two hours before. It was cramped and awkward, and the sound of footsteps and voices rushing past outside kept them constantly on edge until finally, with a last glance at her watch, Hermione nodded that it was time to go.

Peering carefully outside the door into the empty entrance hall, the three of them rushed up the stairs toward the hospital wing. Suddenly Harry grabbed hold of both Violet and Hermione and yanked them quickly into the shadows. It sounded like Fudge and Snape. They were walking quickly along the corridor at the foot of the staircase.

“ . . . really remarkable turn of events,” the Minister was saying. “Never would have dreamed it . . .  _ Prophet _ is going to have a field day with this . . . daresay they’ll want to interview you, Snape, for the tremendous part you’ve played in this . . . and once this mess has been sorted, I expect Sirius Black will consider himself to be quite in your debt . . .”

Violet frowned as she caught a glimpse of Professor Snape’s smirk as he and Fudge passed by her hiding place. Their footsteps died away. Violet, Harry, and Hermione waited a few moments to make sure they’d really gone, then started to run as quietly as they could in the opposite direction. Up one staircase, then another, along a familiar corridor, and then —

The doors to the infirmary were closed. The three of them froze as they opened. Dumbledore’s back appeared.

“I am going to lock you in,” they heard him saying. “It is five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns should do it. Good luck.”

Dumbledore backed out of the room, closed the door, and took out his wand to magically lock it. Panicked, Harry, Violet, and Hermione ran forward. Dumbledore looked up, and a wide smile appeared under the long silver moustache. “Well?” he said quietly.

“We did it!” said Harry breathlessly. “Sirius is alright! The dementors didn’t get to him . . .”

Dumbledore beamed at them.

“Well done. I think —” He listened intently for any sound within the hospital wing. “Yes, I think you’ve gone too — get inside — I’ll lock you in —”

The three of them slipped back inside the dormitory. It was empty except for Ron, who was still lying motionless in the end bed, and —

“What on earth —?”

The curtain around Sirius’s bed was no longer there. He was laying in bed, head raised, and a set of thick chains secured both his arms to the hospital bed, and he was staring right at the three of them with an expression of shock on his gaunt face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Things have been very busy at work and at home; the business has moved into a new building, meaning we've had to restock and set everything up ourselves, and my grandma is planning to have the house painted, so we've been packing up knick-knacks and stuff to get it all out of the way in time. Hasn't left much time or energy for writing. Thank you for your patience!


	20. A Hopeful Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The door at the end of the hospital wing opened and Madam Pomfrey came striding back out of her office.

“Did I hear the headmaster leaving? Am I allowed to look after my patients now?”

Violet, Harry, and Hermione looked at one another in shock. Was that it? No comment about Sirius Black of sane mind, sitting up in bed? Of course things had changed —  _ they _ had changed things — but it was all so surreal.

Ignoring Madam Pomfrey completely, Violet rushed over to Sirius’ bedside.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “Why have they got you all chained up?”

“I’m fine, Violet,” Sirius said, smiling faintly. His hair and clothes were still filthy, and in the bright light of the infirmary he looked more skeletal than ever, but his eyes were shining with the life and warmth that had been missing hours ago. Hours, Violet realized, that had never really happened. Sirius flexed his arms weakly, and the chains rattled. “Just a security measure, nothing to worry about. Between Ron and Hermione’s testimony, and you showing up with Pettigrew literally in your hands, Fudge was forced to listen to what I had to say. This is . . . this is a damn sight nicer than anywhere else I’ve been in Ministry custody.”

“But they believe you, don’t they?” said Harry, appearing at Violet’s side. “Fudge and Dumbledore — they know you’re innocent?”

“They know that I’m not a madman,” said Sirius, “and they know that I couldn’t have killed Peter twelve years ago, because Peter is alive and well upstairs at this very moment. But as for the rest of it . . .”

Sirius shrugged as much as his bonds would allow.

“Things are very complicated right now, Harry. My name is not yet cleared, though I’m no longer in danger of being handed over to the dementors. They’ll be Peter’s problem now,” he said, with a twisted look of satisfaction on his face. Violet reached out and took his hand. Sirius jumped slightly, then looked down at their joined hands with wide eyes; restrained though he was, this time he was able to squeeze Violet’s fingers in return.

Violet opened her mouth, intending to ask what else they could do for him, if there was anything they should tell the Minister about what they’d seen and heard a distant shout echoing from somewhere above them . . .

“What was that?” said Madam Pomfrey in alarm.

Now they could hear angry voices, growing louder and louder. Madam Pomfrey was staring at the door.

“Really — they’ll wake everybody up! What do they think they’re doing?”

Violet was trying to hear what the voices were saying. They were drawing nearer.

“Absolutely disgraceful! A nightmare! Can’t have this getting out, we must —”

“Cornelius, I must insist on securing the safety of my students before any political strategery be discussed.”

“There must be a lockdown — a thorough search —”

BAM.

The door of the hospital wing burst open.

Fudge, Snape, and Dumbledore came striding into the ward. Dumbledore alone looked calm. Professor Snape was paler than usual, looking quickly around the room. But Fudge was beside himself.

“The dementors must be allowed to search the castle!” he shouted, wringing his hat in his hands once more. “We cannot allow another prisoner to escape, cannot allow this debacle to get out of hand!”

“Madam Pomfrey,” said Dumbledore abruptly, turning away from Fudge, “has anyone entered or left this ward since last I left it?”

“Of course not, Headmaster!” said Madam Pomfrey. “You locked the doors yourself!”

“And has Sirius Black been out of his bed?”

“Absolutely not, Headmaster. I would have heard him.”

“Dumbledore, we are wasting time,” Fudge hissed. “A handful of teachers cannot reliably search this school for a single rat in the middle of the night —”

“No dementor will enter this school while I am headmaster, Minister,” said Dumbledore calmly, but with such an edge to his voice that Fudge’s face went the colour of spoiled milk. “If Pettigrew has made it out of his confinement, he has likely made his way out of the castle already. Search the grounds if you must, but I will not have those creatures in these halls.”

Fudge’s face turned a blotchy sort of purple. He swelled for a moment, like a bullfrog preparing to let out a deafening belch, and then all the air seemed to go out of him at once. He turned on his heel and stormed from the ward, slamming the doors shut behind him.

“What’s going on?” shouted Sirius from the back of the room. “What’s happened?”

Professor Dumbledore looked gravely at them all over the rims of his spectacles.

“I am sorry to inform you that Peter Pettigrew has escaped from our custody,” he said. The room fell into a stunned silence. Harry and Violet looked at each other, then at Hermione.

“We have to go back,” Harry blurted, staring at her. “We can —”

_ “Shh!” _ Hermione hissed frantically, looking terrified. “It’s too late, Harry!”

“But we can catch him! We can use your T—”

_ “Harry!” _

“What does this mean?” Violet interrupted, turning to look at Professor Dumbledore. “For Sirius — without Pettigrew, is he — can we still prove he’s innocent?”

“Several people, including the Minister himself, were able to see Pettigrew and identify him,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I spoke to him myself, and believe that the testimony provided by Sirius himself, as well as the four of you, will be sufficient to keep him out of Azkaban.”

Sirius let out a deep, shaky sigh of relief.

“What about Snape?” Harry said sharply, rounding on Professor Snape. “He was there, too. He heard the truth —”

“I heard a version of the truth,” said Professor Snape stiffly. Violet’s mouth fell open.

“How can you say that!” she demanded. “I was standing right there with you, I heard everything you did! You  _ saw _ Pettigrew —”

“Whether Severus elects to testify is up to him,” said Professor Dumbledore, cutting off Violet’s rising anger.

“What about Professor Lupin?” said Hermione, her voice shaking.

“Professor Lupin is currently deep in the forest, unable to tell us anything,” said Dumbledore grimly. “By the time he is human again, things may have changed. I might add that werewolves are so mistrusted by most of our kind that his support will count for very little.”

“Not to mention that he and Black are known conspirators,” said Snape, though he abruptly shut his mouth at the look Professor Dumbledore gave him.

“So what’s going to happen to me, then?” said Sirius, looking surprisingly stoic. Dumbledore turned back to him, his expression inscrutable.

“I do not know, Sirius,” he said quietly. “But I will do everything within my power to see that you are treated fairly, and with dignity. I believe you have earned that much, at the very least.”

“Thank you, professor,” Sirius said, blinking. He turned away from them all and sank back into his pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

When Snape and Dumbledore left the ward to start the search of the castle, Violet, Harry, and Hermione were herded back into their beds by a very grim Madam Pomfrey and each given generous amounts of chocolate. Even that didn’t help; the three of them lay despondently in their beds, nibbling slowly, all worrying about the future they had to look forward to in the morning.

 

When Harry, Ron, Violet, and Hermione left the hospital wing at noon the next day, it was to find an almost deserted castle. The sweltering heat and the end of the exams meant that everyone was taking full advantage of another Hogsmeade visit. None of them felt like going, however; Sirius was taken early that morning, picked up by three very serious looking Ministry officials who kept their wands trained on him the entire time, despite Dumbledore’s assurances that he was not any sort of threat to them. Sirius went quietly. He didn’t even say goodbye to the twins, though he did turn to smile at them; it was a worried smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Violet burst into tears at the sight of it.

The worst was explaining things to Tracey and Cassius.

Ron had the benefit of missing out on only the tail end of the night’s adventures, and catching him up on everything that had happened while he was unconscious only took a manner of minutes. But for Violet’s friends, the matter was more complicated.

Once they were done berating her for staying out all night by herself and demanding to know how she’d gotten all of her cuts and bruises, Violet was able to shout Cass and Tracey into sitting down and listening to her story.

It took over an hour to get the whole thing out. Violet kept having to stop and pull herself back together, and both her friends interrupted plenty of times with questions, admonishments, and bursts of outrage and alarm. The hardest part was telling them about Professor Lupin, and seeing the expression of absolute horror on Cassius’ face. It took even longer to tell the story after that. Even then, Violet didn’t tell them everything. She didn’t tell them that she had been ready to kill Pettigrew herself. She didn’t tell them that Sirius had asked if she and Harry would want to come and live with him, once his name was cleared. She did not, even though she desperately wanted to, tell her friends about using Hermione’s Time-Turner and sending her Patronus charging alongside Harry’s, saving Sirius from the dementors and rewriting the future they were currently living in.

After reliving the entire ordeal, Violet was physically and emotionally exhausted. She left Tracey and Cass in the Slytherin common room and took to wandering the castle. Her feet carried her without really meaning to, just as they had the night before, to Professor Lupin’s office. The door was open. Violet raised her fist to knock anyway, but stopped at the sight that greeted her.

Most of Lupin’s things had been packed up. The grindylow’s empty tank stood next to Lupin’s battered old suitcase, which was open and nearly full. Professor Lupin was bending over something on his desk and looked up only when Violet stepped over the threshold.

“I saw you coming,” said Lupin, smiling. He looked even more sickly than usual, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He pointed to the parchment he had been poring over. It was the Marauder’s Map.

“Why are you packing?” Violet asked, looking around at what was left of his things. “Are you — are you leaving?”

“I’m afraid I am,” said Lupin. He started opening his desk drawers and taking out the contents.

_ “Why?” _ said Violet. “Dumbledore said he’d spoken for you, that the Ministry knew you weren’t involved with helping Pettigrew —”

Professor Lupin crossed to the door and closed it behind Violet.

“That’s true, yes. Professor Dumbledore managed to convince Fudge that I was trying to save your lives.” He sighed. “That was the final straw for Severus. I think the loss of the Order of Merlin hit him hard. So he — er —  _ accidentally _ let slip that I am a werewolf this morning at breakfast.”

Violet felt like she’d been slapped.

“He  _ what?” _ she said hoarsely. “But — but I thought he — Is that why you’re leaving? Because of Professor Snape?”

Lupin smiled wryly.

“This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from parents . . . They will not want a werewolf teaching their children, Violet. And after last night, I see their point. I could have bitten any of you . . . That must never happen again.”

“But you’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve ever had!” said Violet. “You  _ can’t _ go!”

Lupin shook his head and didn’t speak. He carried on emptying his drawers. Violet, hit with a fit of violet impulse, crossed the room to where his suitcase sat on his desk and upended it. She shook its contents roughly onto the floor, shabby robes and mismatched socks and threadbare, patched and re-patched shirts and trousers. She threw the empty case to the floor with a thud and Professor Lupin looked at her in shock.

“Violet, what —”

“You  _ can’t _ go,” she repeated. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“And you plan to do that by making me fold my clothes over and over again?” Lupin said tiredly. Violet set her jaw and stared at him.

“You don’t get to walk away this time,” she said, willing her voice not to shake. “Not from me. Not again.”

Something shifted in Professor Lupin’s eyes. He looked quickly away from her.

“It’s not like that, Violet,” he said quietly. “That isn’t what this is about —”

“Bullshit,” Violet snapped. Lupin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re running again,” she pressed. “You’re scared and overwhelmed, and you’re running away before you have to deal with anything difficult again. And I think that’s bullshit, sir.”

Lupin’s mouth was now hanging open as he silently struggled for words. Both of them jumped as the door banged open, and turned to see Harry standing there, panting.

“I’ve just seen Hagrid,” Harry gasped. “He said you’re resigning. It’s not true, is it?”

Violet raised her arms and gestured silently around the nearly empty office. Harry gaped at her, and then at Lupin.

“But you  _ can’t _ go!” he said loudly. “Dumbledore knows you didn’t do anything wrong, and Fudge —”

“Snape told everyone he’s a werewolf,” Violet interrupted before Harry could repeat her entire argument, “and now he’s running away because he’s afraid the parents won’t let him stay.”

“But that’s rubbish!” Harry said, striding into the office now to stand beside her. “You’re the best Defense Against —”

“The best teacher you’ve ever had, yes, thank you, Harry,” said Lupin shortly. He forced his expression into a smile, but refused to meet either of their eyes. “That’s very kind of you both, and I’m very grateful you think so, but that won’t matter to a single mother or father worried about the safety of their children at school, and rightfully so. What happened last night was —”

“Wasn’t your fault!” Violet interrupted. “It was an accident, you got distracted and things got out of control. Nobody was hurt —”

“Ron’s leg was broken, and I was informed this morning that you received a concussion —”

“Not from you! You didn’t hit me over the head, Pettigrew did, and if you hadn’t been there to explain everything —”

_ “I could have killed you, Violet,” _ said Professor Lupin harshly, taking a step toward her. His calm expression was gone, replaced with wide-eyed panic and desperation. “Don’t you understand that? You could have  _ died, _ and I would have had to live with that, for as long as it took them to have me executed. I cannot allow that to happen again. I  _ will not _ be responsible for hurting you!”

Tears welled up in Violet’s eyes as Lupin stared intently at her, breathing hard. She could see the fear in his face. Without thinking, she crossed to him in two short steps and threw her arms around his middle. Lupin froze as Violet hugged him tightly, locking her arms behind him, holding him as close and as tight as she could.

“You’re hurting me  _ now,” _ Violet sobbed into his chest.

After a long moment, the tension drained out of Lupin’s body. His long arms settled slowly around her shoulders, lightly at first, and then his hold became as fierce as Violet’s own. She cried freely into his shirt, shoulders shaking, legs feeling like they would give out beneath her if she let go of her godfather. She could feel Lupin shaking as well, and heard the rattle deep in his chest as he pulled in air in slow, uneven gasps.

“You c— can’t leave me,” Violet said, her voice muffled. Lupin’s arms tightened around her.

“I won’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I won’t, I swear it, but — I can’t stay here, Violet . . . please, you know I can’t. But I swear, I will always be here for you, I will always be in your life —”

“My life is at Hogwarts!” she wailed, digging her fingers into the back of his robes. “You have to stay! They won’t make you leave, Dumbledore won’t let them —”

Lupin laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “Professor Dumbledore is a great, great man,” he said. Finally, he loosened his grip on Violet, and she reluctantly let go of him as well. “But as great as he is, he cannot override the will of the school governors. They respond to the will of the parents, and the parents won’t —”

“Won’t have anything bad to say about you,” Violet said fiercely. “Every student in this school adores you, not just us. You’ve taught us more in one year than we’ve learned in the past two years combined, and I can’t even imagine what sort of horrible teachers everyone had to put up with before Harry and I got here. You’re the only one who  _ cares _ about us, and cares about what you teach! That’s got to count for something!”

“We’ll tell everyone to say good things about you!” Harry said, stepping forward. “Everybody can tell their parents how great you are, and then the governors will  _ have _ to let you stay!”

Lupin was looking between them with wide, wet eyes, appearing thunderstruck by their determination to make him stay. Violet wanted to hug him again. She wanted to hold onto him forever and ever so that he couldn’t go anywhere without her ever again.

“That’s — that’s very kind of you both,” said Lupin; he sounded very choked up. “I couldn’t ask you to go through all that trouble on my behalf —”

“You don’t have to ask us,” said Harry and Violet together. They looked at each other, briefly, and grinned.

“We’ll take care of it,” Harry said.

“I promise,” said Violet.

“Just don’t go anywhere —”

“And tell Dumbledore you’re not resigning, at least give us a chance —”

“A chance for what?”

Harry and Violet whirled around to face the doorway, where Professor Dumbledore was now standing. He surveyed the mess that Violet had made with polite dispassion, and eventually his eyes found Professor Lupin’s.

“Your carriage is at the gates, Remus,” he said.

The twins looked back to Lupin, staring hopefully up at him. Lupin opened his mouth, then closed it, and then opened it again.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” he said. “However . . . I don’t think it will be necessary any longer.”

Violet’s heart soared.

“You’re staying?” she gasped, starting to cry all over again. “You really mean it?”

“I can’t guarantee that, Violet,” Lupin said quickly, “but for now . . .” He looked back to Professor Dumbledore. “I would like to rescind my resignation, Headmaster, if it’s not too late.”

There was a small smile playing around beneath Dumbledore’s long silver moustache.

“What resignation?” he said lightly.

 

For the rest of term, Violet, Harry, Ron, and Hermione worked tirelessly to spread the word amongst the rest of the students that Professor Lupin needed their support. Many had already written letters home about him, once word of his condition began to spread, and the letters from worried parents had flooded in just as Professor Lupin had predicted — but that didn’t mean all hope was lost.

Violet had started a list. She wrote a simple letter to the school governors explaining how important Professor Lupin had been to her education and her understanding of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and implored them to let him continue teaching, and then she went around badgering everyone who would listen into signing it. It was slow going; at first no one wanted to speak to her, much less sign her stupid letter to let a werewolf stay at the school. But then, after three difficult days, the most miraculous thing began to happen; a group of older students agreed to sign the letter, and then more students followed, and more, and soon Violet was swarmed with students from all Houses asking if they could add their signature and what else they could do to help.

Violet traced this sudden influx of interest back to an unexpected source: Cassius.

“What you said really got me thinking,” he said, scuffing his feet on the flagstones when Violet finally managed to corner him. “About Lupin, and about — er — werewolves . . . I never would have known what he was if Snape hadn’t said anything . . . he’s certainly not some blood-thirsty monster snapping at our heels in the middle of the night, like I thought they all were . . . he’s just a bloke, isn’t he? And he’s” — twin spots of pink appeared high in his pale cheeks — “he’s important to you, Vi. So I guess that means he’s important to me, too. So I told some of the lads in my year about it and —”

Cass didn’t get to finish what he was saying. The wind was knocked out of him as Violet threw herself into his arms and cried on him for a full fifteen minutes. And when that was done, she thanked him profusely and shoved the letter into his hands to sign as well; it was up to four feet of parchment now, and Violet was certain she could get it to five before the term’s end.

With all the fuss going on about Professor Lupin, Violet had very nearly forgotten to keep up with news about Sirius Black. It wasn’t until Harry shoved the  _ Daily Prophet _ under her nose one morning that she remembered there was yet another new member of her family to be worried about.

“There’s going to be a trial in August,” Harry said excitedly, “which is more than he ever got before, apparently. Dumbledore’s going to testify! He’s going to tell the truth about Pettigrew, and everyone’s going to know that Sirius is innocent! Even if Snape testifies that Sirius held a gun to our heads in the Shrieking Shack, no one’s going to listen to him over Dumbledore!”

At the mention of Professor Snape, Violet’s eyes flicked up to the staff table where he was sitting. She hadn’t spoken to him ever since the night Pettigrew escaped, and had been avoiding him in the halls. A churning knot of anger bubbled up in her stomach every time she looked at her Head of House and remembered what he had done to Professor Lupin, and what he might very well cause him to lose. It made Violet sick. She didn’t trust herself to speak to Professor Snape without shouting, and knew that would go very poorly for her indeed.

But the news about Sirius’ trial kept Violet’s spirits afloat for another week. Armed with the new evidence and testimony, there had to be a chance that he would be acquitted. And then, once he was free, if he could have his own home, some place that Harry and Violet could come and stay with him . . .

They had to hope. 

 

The exam results came out on the last day of term. Violet and Tracey had passed every subject. Violet was amazed to see that she still had full marks in Potions, despite all the tension with Professor Snape. She had full marks in Arithmancy as well, which astounded her more than anything else.

Tracey had secured top marks in Muggle Studies, which she hollered loud enough for the entire Great Hall to hear, and had scored high in Herbology as well. Cassius, who had worked himself to exhaustion over his O.W.L.s, nearly collapsed in relief when he learned that he had passed them all with high scores across the board.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed all their classes as well, and Harry informed Violet that Percy had got his top-grade N.E.W.Ts; Fred and George had scraped a handful of O.W.Ls each, but Violet knew that meant very little to either of them. The Weasley twins were some of the most brilliant people she knew, and congratulated them both with her last box of Sugar Quills.

Despite the grumbling of her Housemates, Violet clapped loudly when it was announced that Gryffindor had won the House Cup for the second year running. This meant that the end of term feast took place amid decorations of scarlet and gold, and that the Gryffindor table was the noisiest of the lot, as everybody celebrated. Even Violet managed to forget about the uncertainty of returning to the Dursleys the next day as she ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest.

For the first time since his secret had been revealed to the whole school, Professor Lupin had put in an appearance at the staff table. He looked pale and nervous, but he chatted with Professor Flitwick through most of the meal, and Violet was pleased to see Professor McGonagall giving him a friendly pat on the arm. It was important, Violet felt, for him to be seen as he always had been — a kind, charming man who was good at his job. Whatever else, she wanted him to be seen as that first, by everyone else, at least. To Violet, chiefly, Lupin was her godfather.

And she told him that the next morning, in front of all her friends as she demanded that he join them in their carriage on the Hogwarts Express.

“I’m not taking the train, Violet,” Lupin said lightly as Violet was busy pulling insistently on his arm. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Does that mean you’re staying at Hogwarts for the summer?”

“For now, at least. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to stay on permanently yet — yes, I’ve seen the letter, and I am . . .  _ very _ touched, I really am — but this matter is still out of my hands. I’ll write to you as soon as I know anything definite, I promise”

With a lingering, tearful parting hug, Violet finally stepped away from Professor Lupin and joined Tracey and Cassius in finding a compartment.

“I heard Granger’s dropping Muggle Studies,” Tracey said smugly, as soon as they’d all sat down. “I suppose she wasn’t pleased to lose out on top marks for once.”

Violet, who knew that Hermione had given her Time-Turner back to Professor McGonagall that very morning, smiled but kept her mouth shut. Cass let out a heavy sigh as he flopped across the entire bench on the other side of the compartment.

“This has been a bloody  _ weird _ year,” he grumbled, covering his eyes dramatically. “I can’t believe I’m actually happy to be going home.”

“I’m not!” Tracey exclaimed. “I won’t get to see you both for two whole months! I got a letter from my dad this morning, and my Auntie is expecting again — that’s five so far! Not to mention all the other cousins running around. I’m not going to get  _ any _ sleep until we get back to school . . .”

“So, Violet,” said Cass, “how far into the holidays are you planning to run away from home this time? Two weeks? Dare I say three?”

“Oh, shut up,” Violet said, hiding her grin. “You’d better start preparing that spare room you’re always talking about, ‘cause I might just show up on your door ready to move in.”

Violet was joking, but there was enough truth to it to make her stop laughing before her friends. She had no idea what was waiting for her and Harry at Privet Drive; would Aunt Petunia even let them come back? Would Uncle Vernon still be there? What would they do if no one was waiting to pick them up at the station, and they were left stranded with all their trunks and supplies in the middle of Muggle London?

It was a worry that made her stomach churn with unease, but Violet did her best to push all of that down and enjoy the last few hours with her friends. They played a few games of Exploding Snap, ran over their exam results with each other, bought out the lady with the sweets trolley, and by the time the Hogwarts Express pulled into King’s Cross station the three of them were slumped comfortably against each other, determined not to think of this as goodbye.

Violet found Harry waiting for her as she stepped out onto the platform, Crookshanks bundled under one arm as she pulled her trunk behind her with the other. Harry was smiling just as anxiously as she was, and together the two of them found their way to the barrier between platform nine and three-quarters.

It was with a measure of surprise that the twins caught sight of Aunt Petunia waiting for them on the other side, all by herself. She was standing a good distance from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, eyeing them suspiciously, and when Mrs. Weasley swept them both into greeting hugs, her worst fears about them seemed confirmed.

“I’ll call about the World Cup!” Ron yelled after Harry as Harry bid him and Hermione goodbye. He and Violet then wheeled their trolleys bearing their trunks and pets toward Aunt Petunia, who greeted them in a most unusual fashion

“Hello,” said their aunt stiffly, and the twins looked uncertainly at each other.

“Hello, Aunt Petunia,” they intoned together. The three of them spent an uncomfortable number of seconds silently looking one another over; Aunt Petunia, Violet noted with interest, was wearing a pair of casual linen trousers instead of her usual skirts. She was also wearing lipstick.

“Well, come along then,” said Aunt Petunia suddenly, and starting walking briskly across the platform. Harry and Violet had no choice but to follow her. The car she led them to was not Uncle Vernon’s massive black company car; Aunt Petunia got behind the wheel and waited for the pair of them to load their trunks into the boot. Only one would fit, while the other had to be crammed into the back seat with one of the twins. Violet took one for the team and nervously settled herself in the front seat next to Aunt Petunia. The little car puttered to life.

“Are you well?” asked Aunt Petunia when they had been driving for ten minutes. Violet’s wide eyes met Harry’s in the rear-view mirror, stunned and unsure how to respond. Aunt Petunia had never asked after them before. What could they say?

“Er — yes,” Violet said awkwardly, looking at her aunt out of the corner of her eyes. “Are you? Well, I mean?”

Aunt Petunia pressed her lips together in the way she did whenever one of the twins asked a question. Violet sank back in her seat, ready for the rest of the car ride to be spent in silence.

She was shocked, then, when Aunt Petunia finally responded, “Yes. Yes, I am well.”

It was the strangest interaction the three of them had ever had. Violet couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of strange things could be waiting for them at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for all the comments and kudos and kind words of support!! I read every comment, and all of them mean the world to me. This book has been so fun and exciting to work on, and it was the one I was most looking forward to when I started this crazy project.
> 
> I will be continuing with Book 4 very soon! I'll be taking a short break to get a backlog of chapters finished and let things settle for a while, but keep an eye out for an update in the weeks to come!
> 
> Again, thank you so very much. I hope you've enjoyed Violet's journey as much as I have. She'll be back soon!

**Author's Note:**

> At the time of posting this first chapter, I haven't yet finished all the chapters of this book, which means updates will likely be slower than they have been before. At the very least, I plan to post one chapter a week, if not more. Thank you for your patience!


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